


The Sister Story That Never Got A Title

by johnnywalkerblu



Category: The A-Team (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 70,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnywalkerblu/pseuds/johnnywalkerblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage foster-kid Templeton is dating a lovely Junior cheerleader named Mandy Smith.  But once he meets her big brother John, everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sister Story That Never Got A Title

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from a prompt on the Kink-Meme by the lovely Amerisu reading - Ohh wicked idea: Face meets a plot device girl, but has to get approval from her protective elder brother before he can date her or something. Hannibal takes one look at the guy his little sister wants to date and decides his sister will never date him. No, Hannibal will keep that one for himself...
> 
> Unfinished - but I am trying very hard to complete it because I'm aware it still has fans.

This is going to be his night. Mandy Smith. Fifth date. The date they make out.

Standing in front of the sink in his crummy, shared among six foster kids, bathroom, Templeton Peck checks his shave, his hair, his teeth. All good. He’s clean, even if he did have to sneak into the master bath for a handful of shampoo this morning. His jeans are getting to that stage where seams are going to start parting, but that’s an ok look. His T-shirt’s kinda punky; little Jen doing the wash again this week; she always overfills. Brushing his hair back one last time, he moves out and takes a right down the narrow hallway to his room. His, and Ran’s, and now Scott’s. 

Mr. and Mrs. Jaynes picked up Scott right after Christmas. Right after Mr. Pantoli, the guidance counselor, called and told them wasn’t it great that Templeton’s scholarship to Rutgers came through. Full ride. Come down and sign his papers.

He’d been embarrassed, ashamed was more like it. Aware of the looks on their faces. He hadn’t told them anything about Rutgers, or about UCLA, or Northwestern, for that matter. Knew they wouldn’t understand. Worse yet, would try to talk him out of it. Would succeed in talking him out of it, like they had Randy, just last year. 

Kid had had a shot at a half academic at UConn. UConn, for Christ’s sweet sake. And they’d taken Randy out to dinner, a rare enough occurrence on it’s own, made even rarer by the fact that they’d given him two twenties and let him buy pizza for himself and Travis and the Jennifers. Big Jen had given him that look of hers when he came in the door with it, that ‘oh god, what now’ look that every foster kid has.

They’d come home late, after lights out. And UConn had never been mentioned again. Ran had stayed. Gone right from after school hours fixing tires and installing shocks at Jaynes Tire and Auto, to six ten hour days. He was going to get to learn how to do engine work, he’d confided. He could make a lot of money doing that. But Randy hadn’t really been able to look him in the eye when he said it.

“Hey, Ran?” The older boy is getting ready to go out too. Saturday night is all they get, and they make the most of it. “Ran?”

“What Temp? You need money?” Randy grins and holds out a fan of twenties. “Cashed my check on the way home.”

“Yeah, kinda.” His job in the office at the shop only pays about half what Ran makes, but they keep him there. Brains instead of brawn. It would be cool to have enough to take Mandy to someplace nicer than Wendy’s after the movie, but he’d never ask. You don’t. Not in this world. It’s going pretty far to even ask to borrow clothes. “But what I really need is a shirt.”

Randy checks him out and grins again. “Going to try to take a bite out of the upper crust again, huh, Temp? Mandy Smith. Out of your league, brub. Way.”

“Not if you’ll let me borrow a goddamned shirt, Randy.”

A small intake of breath startles him. Scott’s sitting in the corner with a tattered People magazine, small and scared. “I won’t tell.” He whispers softly. There’s a rule about swearing in this house, and Scott’s new enough here to be law-abiding.

“Thanks.” He gives the kid a smile and Scott smiles back, then goes under again, behind his magazine, inside his shell.

“Here.” Ran is being a saint right now, handing over the new white shirt he bought at the Gap. They’re of a size, and it’ll fit. It’ll look fucking awesome is what it will do. And it does, once he’s got it on, buttoned up, sleeves rolled just right. “Even an uptight rich girl won’t be able to resist you, Temp.” Ran pats his shoulder and tucks a folded twenty into the shirt’s chest pocket. “Good luck.”

Wallet grabbed, housekey tucked into the watch pocket of his jeans, he heads to the family room. The word makes him snort. Mike and Peggy’s room is what it is. The six of them have to stand in the doorway. Toe over the line onto the pale carpet means no dinner. Stepping in would probably mean death.

“That you, Templeton?” Christ but Mike’s got ears like a bat.

With the toes of his worn Adidas just where the green indoor/outdoor crap ends, he stands up straight and puts his hands behind his back. “Yes, sir, Mr. Jaynes.”

His foster father looks at him from his La-Z-Boy, across thirty feet of pristine carpet, over the top of the new Sports Illustrated, glasses down on his nose. He keeps the even smile on his face, trying to believe he’s more to the man than another pair of cut-rate hands in the office, working like hell to think Mike and Peggy do care, and finally thinking about where he’d be if they hadn’t taken him in. The orphanage was worse. So, so much worse.

“Going out, Templeton?” Peggy is doing her damned cross-stitch. Little homilies everywhere. Tiny snips of colored thread in the carpet that won’t even come up with the vacuum. They have to get on their hands and knees and pick that shit up.

Be calm. Be cool. No strain on the brain. “Yes, ma’am. If that’s all right?”

“Is your work done?” Fuck. He’s forgotten something. Peggy never just tells you, she asks, and asks, until you feel dumber than a box of fucking rocks. He pauses, and he can hear her goddamned triumphant smile. Shit. What is it? Bitch’ll let him stand here all night. The silence is so deafening, he can hear the TV down in Travis’ room. It’s ‘Gilligan’s Island’ on channel 20. Damn. Travis. How could he forget him?

“I was just gonna go and change the bed for Trav, ma’am.”

“Really? Well, see that you do. Make sure he doesn’t need the toilet while you’re at it, since you and Randall will be gone. But only until midnight, Templeton, right?”

Like anything would change at this late date. Thank god eighteen is only a month away. At least according to his paperwork.

“Yes, ma’am. Midnight. I’ll be home on time.”

Nothing. She’s pissed that he remembered and she’s going to make him stand here. Make him waste an hour or two. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Go on then.” Like she’s the queen of the universe. Which he’s pretty sure she thinks she is.

“Yes, ma’am.” No ‘be careful’. No ‘have a good time’. Backing away, he turns to head to Travis’ room, cutting through the warm, silent kitchen where the spaghetti sauce that the Jens made after school is bubbling.

He bows his head and swears quietly to himself when he hears, “Do the bed right, Templeton. If I have to re-do it, you’ll be grounded next weekend.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do it right.” He keeps on swearing, little muffled obscenities leaking out of his mouth as he stops in the back hall and opens the hamper, grabbing a pile of clean linen, blessing big Jen for folding it into a single square of exactly what they need. Nudges the door open with his toe, and grins at the smiling kid in the creaky hospital bed.

“Hiya, Tem.”

“Hiya, Trav.”

“You….gonna…..” Travis waves a hand, trying to get the words out.

“Yup. Time to clear the decks buddy. You ready?”

Travis nods, holding out his arms. “Come-a lift me?”  
Settling his armful on the top of the dresser, he walks over to the bed and leans down, asking a little forgiveness from the universe. How the hell could he have forgotten he needed to do this?

 

Travis wraps slender arms around his neck, grabbing his own wrist with his opposite hand, holding on tight, and Temp lifts, moving the slim weight from bed to side chair. He’d hated this at first. Learning this. Doing this. Until the day he’d realized how mortified Travis was, being lifted and moved and cleaned up by a kid that hated every minute of it. Hated him, he thought. They’d talked then, and Travis stopped being a weight and became, well, a brother.

“You…..going…..out?” Travis is grinning at him, that sweet, teasing little boy smile.

“Yeah.” He nods, returning the grin, bending back toward the bed, stripping the sheets with quick, efficient movements. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Travis is a teenage boy too, that he should be getting to go out with girls, have his first kiss. Not lie here, drawing money from the State for Mike and Peggy, being ignored. 

Reaching under the pillow, he yanks his hand back with a hiss, the sharp point of a pencil sticking out of his palm. “Jesus, Trav.”

“Sorry. Thought….it….might be…..her. Hid it.” Templeton pulls out the thick pad of cheap paper and the pencil, looking at Travis’ drawing. It’s the Jens, big and little, sitting out in a meadow. There’s a house, and a barn, and a horse. It’s the place. The place they all talk about, and all know doesn’t exist. The stupid, goddamned, happy place.

“It’s good.” He mutters, shoving the supplies into Travis’ lap, heart aching. There is no place. Kids like them don’t have a place. There’s only this. And getting through it.

“Thanks.” 

Setting the neat bundle in the middle of the mattress, he starts to unfold. The corners come out perfectly, and he makes a mental note to give Jen a hug as soon as he sees her. She makes this so much easier. 

Smoothing and tucking, pulling everything tight and perfect, he gets the bed done in record time. It’s just right, and he lets himself smile. Not because he won’t get grounded, but because Travis can sit here all night now and be comfortable. No wrinkles. No seams. Just spaghetti, and the Jens, and Saturday Night Live. And something else.

“Hey, Trav.?” He turns back and squats down in front of the kid’s chair, looking into his eyes while he checks to make sure that each foot is warm and that there’s nothing wet or dirty.

“I…. didn’t….pee myself, Temp.”

“I know. I just don’t want you to have a problem. Me and Ran will be gone and, shit’s sake, buddy, you know neither of them would help you.”

“Jen would.”

“You outweigh Jen.” Everything seems ok, and he sits back on his heels. “Trav?”

“What Temp?”

“Get Scott in here tonight. After chores are done and you get TV time? Get him in here, huh.” They haven’t done enough to make sure that kid is doing ok.

“We ask.” He knows they do, but Scott still walks away.

“I know. Have little Jen ask him. Maybe that’ll work.”

“Kay, Temp. You…better….get going. That M..mandy Smith isn’t….gonna…..wait forever.”

“You?” he asks, incredulous grin on his handsome face. “You are busting my chops now? Over Mandy Smith? Ran tell you her name?”

Travis nods, laughing, holding out his arms. “He said….tease…Temp.”

He grumps a little as he bends down, but they both know it’s just noise. “You need the bathroom, kiddo? Or just back in bed?”

“Bed. Ran….helped….me go…before.”

Settling the slim body back into the fresh bed, he says, “when he told you to tease me, right?”

Travis nods, accepting the edge of the soft top sheet, pulling it up over him.

He slips a hand into Travis’ short dark wisps and ruffles gently. “You should sleep before dinner.” He tries to make it light, unworried, but he felt how rigid the kid’s limbs are, how exhausted he is, the effort it cost him to speak clearly. 

Travis nods, lifting a painfully twisted hand to push Temp’s fingers out of his hair. “I got…it…covered. You go…have a….good time. With Mandy.”

He backs toward the door, lifting a cocked hand and shooting Travis gently in the heart. “See you when I get in, buddy.”

 

It’s warm outside, even for May, and he feels his heart lift a little, like it always does when he gets out of that house. But that’s not all. He thinks he might actually be in love. At least he thinks about her all the time, wants to be where she is. Wants more than the closed lip little goodnights he’s had up til now. 

The bus is late, and he stands quietly at the side of the shelter, hands in pockets, making sure he doesn’t lean and get Ran’s shirt dirty, part of the impatient crowd. He told her seven, and it’s twenty of now, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to make it. And if they don’t make the 8:30 show, they won’t get out in time to even hardly kiss, much less make out, before he has to catch the fucking bus to come back down here. He needs a car. Away. His fucking freedom. That’s what he needs.

It’s ten of before the groaningly full bus arrives, and then it’s push and shove as people get off and people get on. This is going to take forever, and it’s all he can do not to bang his head against the window he’s sitting by and cry. Even that is taken from him when he sees an older woman struggling up the aisle with a mommy purse and a tote bag full of groceries. He gets up, hefting her bag, guiding her into his seat, waving away her thanks, grabbing for the overhead bar and closing his eyes.

At least Mandy’s going to be at the end of this. She’s a cute little Junior cheerleader. Chestnut hair. Silvery blue eyes. Long legs. And nice. So nice. He’s never heard her be snarky. Never mean. She didn’t laugh in his face like those other Northside girls do when he asks them out. She’d agreed to sit with him at lunch and, when the bell rang, she’d said she would go out with him. That had been the best damned day of his life. No, take that back. The day she let him kiss her. That was the best day of his life.

The jolt of them going over the bridge from South to North pulls him out of thoughts of soft lips and shining blue eyes looking adoringly into his. Ten more stops. Ten more. Then four blocks over. Which he’s going to just run, and he’ll make it by 7:30. This can work.

He pulls up with half a block to go, slowing his breathing, tucking his shirt back in, pulling all his attitude around him. He doesn’t need it for Mandy. It’s her father. John Smith. High powered lawyer. Steel rimmed eyeglasses. Cordovan shoes. The man doesn’t like him and makes no secret of it. He’d been cross examined as soon as he stepped in the door that first night. Where do you live? How are you allowed to attend North High when you live down there? Would I know your father? What does he do?

He’d answered them all, even the ones that hurt. For Mandy. While she stood there, embarrassed for him. There hadn’t been any more questions since that night, only those eagle eyes, but he could feel the disapproval, can still feel it, rolling toward him in waves as soon as he rings the doorbell.

The door swings open quick, like they were waiting for him on the other side, which is weird. But weirder yet is that he’s staring at shirt buttons, right where Mr. Smith’s steel-rims should be. Stepping back, he checks the house number, and then, when it’s exactly what it should be, he looks up.

“You must be the Mouse’s boyfriend.” The guy says, voice deep and strong, reaching to shake his hand. “I’m her brother. John.”

 

“Templeton.” It’s a little hard to believe that balding cordovan shoes fathered the man in front of him. He’s at least six-four, shoulders wide as the door, and the hand he’s shaking is huge. Just. Huge. But the eyes, yeah, those are the silver blue eyes, eagle version. And there are those pictures on the mantel. Valedictorian of North High. West Point. Another one where some bigwig with medals is handing him a beret and a patch. This is that guy all right. John Smith, Jr.

“Well come on in, Templeton.” John is ushering him in, sweeping the door shut behind him. “Things are a little bit crazy. I just got home and……well there’s Mandy Mouse.”

Mandy is coming down the stairs. White miniskirt and leggings. Blue sweater. Keds. She’s gorgeous. As usual. “Get with the program. Nobody calls me Mouse anymore Johnny.” Her fist is small, and it doesn’t seem to make much of an impact on her brother’s solid bicep.

“And no one calls me Johnny anymore. Mouse.” His return strike is a gentle tug of her shining ponytail as she stops on the stair nearest him, where their heads are almost level.

“I know. I heard. Hannibal. I mean, what is that about, Johnny? Seriously?”

“It’s called a handle. Everyone gets one, sis. And no one gets a choice. It’s bestowed. Like your cheer sweater. From on high.”

Mandy falls back on the same response every little girl with an older brother has used since time immemorial. She sticks out her tongue at him. Crossing her eyes for good measure.

“Gonna get stuck that way, Mouse.” John teases gently. “You……”

“John? Who was at the door?” It’s Mrs. Smith. Ann. “Oh.” That single word speaks volumes, and he smiles, wishing he were rich, or well-bred, or Episcopalian, whatever would make him acceptable. “Templeton. I’m afraid Amanda won’t be able to go out with you tonight…”

“What!? Mother!” Mandy stomps down the rest of the stairs, eyes flashing.

“He understands, dear.” Yeah, he thinks, I got your number, lady. Definitely picking up what you’re laying down. “John’s just gotten home and Mr. Smith and I have to leave unexpectedly Monday morning for quite a long trip, and I need…”

“Mother. It’s only Europe. You’re going to pack twice as much as you need anyway. You pack your whole closet to go to the beach house. And Johnny doesn’t care if I go out.” Mandy’s small hand reaches and John catches it, enveloping it completely in that big paw. “We’re spending the next three months together while you guys are gone. A two-hour movie and a Frosty can’t be that big a deal.” 

Ice forms on Ann’s response. “Amanda. Do not contradict me.” 

“I’m not, Mother. Saturday is the only night Temp gets. The only. Come on……I……”

“Let them go.” John is smiling at his mother, deflecting the anger in her eyes at Mandy’s insubordination, drawing her attention where he wants it. Where he’s in control. “You and Dad and I have a lot to talk about. They can take my truck if you like. That’d get them home faster.”

Whafuck? John has a truck? And he’s willing to let them take it?

“Well…” Ann is wavering and Templeton watches, biting his lip to hide his smile as John gives the little push that topples her. “It’ll be safer. They won’t have to be on the bus at this time of night, Mom.”

“If you think it’s all right, John darling, then I…” It’s weird. It’s like this woman was never young. Like she has no clue.

“It’s all right.” John’s expression has not changed. No triumph, not even satisfaction. Only a kind of worship, maybe? That his mother has been so gracious. Wow, he thought he was a con artist. This guy is fucking great.

Mandy wants to start crowing. It’s in those lovely eyes. But he can see John’s hand tighten gently, toning her down.

“I’ll be in the den with your father.” Ann is back in charge again, or at least she thinks she is. “You’ll come there once you’ve seen these two off.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Expensive heels tap on the polished wood floor as she goes, and only then does Mandy begin to squeal. Throwing her arms around John’s neck, she practically jumps into his arms, holding tight. “thank you, thank you, thank you! She’s so much better when you’re home!”

John loves having his sister’s adoration, that’s obvious. But there’s way too much pain in his expression. Agony, really. Still it’s something of a surprise when the big man pushes his little sister away, his face white.

“Oh, Johnny!” Mandy’s hands are clapped over her mouth, and tears are standing in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I forgot..I, oh shit! Are you ok?”

“Fine, Mouse. I’ll be fine. You didn’t do anything.” He can see John gathering himself as he fishes in his pocket for the keys and hands them over. Those eyes meet his. They’re like windows, and he can see in. A long way in. This man is far from fine. “You be careful, Templeton. And have a good time. Take her somewhere and get her some real ice cream.” Another twenty is tucked into his pocket as John takes Mandy’s hand and gives it over to him. “She likes pistachio.”

 

“What happened to him?” He’s steering John’s really excellent new Ford pickup toward the mall and the movie, while Mandy sits quietly in the passenger seat, chin in hand.

“He got wounded. He can’t tell anyone where it happened, or how it happened, or anything, really.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Mandy’s playing with the bottom button on her sweater, a distant hurt in her eyes. “Can’t. He’s a Ranger, Temp. Special Forces, you know?”

“No. I don’t know. That’s why I asked.” He pulls into the parking lot and finds a space, twisting off the ignition, turning in his seat to focus on what she’s saying.

“Army Rangers are the top of the heap, Temp. They do all the really unpleasant shit. Everything the regular Army can’t handle, that’s where Rangers go. At least that’s what John says.”

“And so, he was somewhere. Doing something. Something really unpleasant. And he got wounded.”

Mandy nods, looking at him soberly.

“And so he came home.”

“They sent him home. It was pretty bad. He was in the hospital in Germany for six months. And, I think, well, I think the rest of his group, his platoon or his team or whatever, I think they all died.”

He grips the wheel, hard. Sure people die. Guys in the military, they die. But until you know one, know someone who’s affected, you just don’t think about what they do. Every day. “You really think so?”

She sounds wounded herself, struggling to answer. “I do. He’s so…. The scars are bad, I mean, he showed me when I asked, and they’re bad. But he’s hurt down inside, Temp. Down at his heart.” That small fist smacks into the armrest. A lot harder than she punched John. “God I love him so much. He’s always been my protector, my rock. He taught me all the good stuff, you know? How to swim. How to climb trees. How to ride a bike. I can’t see him all….so….broken.”

He’d have to say she’s right. That one glance he’d gotten, yeah, she’s right. Upper crust and all, life’s never without goddamned problems. Scooting over, taking her gently in his arms, he murmurs, “I’m sorry. Really. But you get to spend, what?, like the next three months with him, you said? He’ll get better.”

That soft mouth lifts to his, and a warm shiver laps through him as Mandy opens up, kissing him deep and long and slow. “I hope so, Temp..”

“He will.” One more kiss and it strikes him exactly what they’re talking about. Her parents are leaving. Going overseas. This could be all kinds of awesome. “So, tell me why your folks are going to Europe.”

 

Mandy’s not at school on Monday. She’d told him Saturday night not to expect her; she was going to the airport with John to see their parents off. It’s a big case that’s taking them there. Her Dad’s firm is working on a major international corporate acquisition. 

The European company has branches in London, Paris, Zurich and Rome. There are legal teams going to each place, and Mr. Smith is going to oversee them all. It’s practically a Grand Tour; and he was told he could take Mandy’s mom along on the company dime. John is going to stay with Mandy until the Smiths get back. She’s hoping for some relaxation of the rules, cause John’s cool like that. He promised her that they’d talk about it, which was cause for celebration right there.

The call comes after lunch, while he’s in Calculus, working on his final review. Next week is all half days while they take their tests. And then graduation. Freedom. Or at least something like it.

Mr. Anders picks up the ringing phone and listens for a long second, then murmurs something and sets it back down. “Templeton Peck. To Mr. Pantoli’s office.”

Stacking his books and shoving them into his ragged backpack, he slips out of his seat and out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. This can’t be good. Mr. P doesn’t call people out of class much.

Miss Murphy, the counselor for the lowerclassmen, is just coming out of the guidance office as he walks up. “Templeton. How are you?”

“OK, Miss M.” He grabs the door for her and holds it wide, while she gets her armful of paperwork through. “You?”

“Very well. You going to make the stage, kiddo?” It’s a question he’s been hearing for weeks. Making the stage means being one of the top three when he graduates. He’s right there, finals will tell the story, but he doesn’t want it. It means pictures and stuff. And acting like his foster home is the fucking Garden of Eden, and he has to do that once a quarter for the state inspectors, which is bad enough.

The shrug he gives is so typically Templeton that Miss M. smiles when he adds, “I dunno. Maybe.”

“Well, good luck on finals anyway.”

“Thanks Miss M.” The office is damn near silent when he lets the door shut, and he can see Mr. P’s head through his open door, looking down at something spread on his desk.

Whatever it is he’s got to take it like a man, so he yanks his hands out of his pockets, squares his shoulders, and steps through the door.

“Templeton.” Mr. P’s smile is warm and genuine, and he relaxes just a shade. Mr. P is a damn nice guy. It’s about brains and hard work with him, not about the holes in a kid’s shoes. “Have a seat.”

“Something wrong, Mr. P?” Dropping his pack on the carpet, he takes a seat in the hard plastic chair in front of the desk. “Please tell me that Rutgers didn’t yank my money.”

“What? Oh. No, Templeton. Schools don’t do that sort of thing.” Steve Pantoli takes his job very seriously indeed; helping kids like the one in front of him is all he wants out of life, and the idea that this poor boy thinks, no, almost expects, that he’s going to be disappointed is not something he wants to swallow. “It’s just that your Housing and Board forms haven’t been turned in. Admissions is wondering where they are.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. P., I don’t know what those are.”

The counselor is holding up a packet now. Green forms, blue ones, and a couple pages of instructions. “They look like this. Rutgers says they sent them to your home address about four weeks ago. You haven’t seem them?”

He feels red hot fury shoot from his heart to his brain, and all the way down to his toes. Sent home. He never saw them. Those motherfuckers. Probably thought they could derail it for him. Fucking, goddamned, piece-of-shit……

“Templeton?”

He knows his face must be red, and he forces himself to let go of the metal arms of the chair, makes himself relax. “Yeah? Yes, Mr. P.?”

“We can just fill them out together if you like. You can miss Government today, can’t you? It’s only test prep, right?” He knows the man cares, understands without ever having to discuss it that Mike and Peggy aren’t what they seem. And he blesses the man just as silently, thanking him with bright blue eyes.

“That’d be great, Mr. P., if you’d do that for me. I’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem, Templeton. No problem at all.”

 

Even though he’s had two full periods to calm down, he’s still too damned pissed to go home when school lets out. It’ll mean a grounding or some fucking thing if he’s too late, but he just can’t care. The sidewalk unrolls in front of him and he just follows it, thinking back. He’d asked Mr. P. to call Rutgers; ask them, straight out, if he was still golden. The admissions office had confirmed that as soon as they got the forms they’d just filled out, they’d have everything except his body, which they expected on September 17th for Welcome Week. 

He can get out. He knows that. Three weeks and he’s eighteen. But it will mean leaving the Jens, leaving Ran and Travis, leaving Scott to the Jaynes’. That’s going to hurt. The kids count on him. It’s not fucking fair. And where would he go anyway? He’s got no place until September. Thinking so hard he’s not looking, he walks straight into someone, someone a lot like a brick wall.

“Hey, Templeton.” It’s John, in jeans and a T-shirt, keys in one hand, two pizza boxes in the other. “Eyes open. Then walk.”

“Hey. Sorry.” They’re standing in front of Bell’s Greek. “Mandy wanted pizza, huh?”

“Yeah.” John’s looking at him, and he clears his face, going as guileless as he can. 

“You ok, Templeton?”

No one says anything for a long minute. “C’mon. Get in.” John sticks the boxes into his hands. “You can help eat the pizza.”

 

“So they hid the forms, or fucking burned them, or ran them down the disposal or something.” John didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, but, about five minutes into the trip, he’d just started talking and couldn’t stop.

“They really do shit like that, kid?”

“Hell yes. They keep us for the money. Nothing else. They want to keep me as long as they can. Forever.”

“So what are you going to do?” John flicks ash from the thin cigar he’s smoking out the window. “You eighteen yet?”

“Three weeks away. But I can’t leave. The rest of them. The kids? They need me there.”

“You’re the leader.” 

It’s not a question, and he hears the respect in John’s voice. Pretty fucking shocking too, and he fidgets, looking over. “I guess.”

“Then you need to stay. Teach someone else how to lead. Before you go to college.” 

They’re turning in the driveway then, and John is parking. “Bring the food.”

Mandy almost drops the glasses she’s putting on the table when he opens the back door.

“Temp!” She’s in his arms then, John rescuing the pizzas and setting them on the table. “Where’d Johnny find you?”

“On the sidewalk.” John answers before he can say anything, tossing his keys on the counter. “He looked hungry so I brought him home.”

Gently setting Mandy back out of his embrace, he spits it out quick, already heading for the door. “I really should go. I’m late. I’m going to be in trouble anyway, and if I don’t catch the bus pretty damn soon, I’ll be up against curfew and….”

John’s staring at him, brow furrowed. “Sit down, Templeton. Have some dinner. I’ll drive you home. We’ll get you there by your goddamned curfew.”

 

The pizza is good. Thick with cheese and olives and everything else he loves. Mandy and John describe the circus of getting their parents to the airport with all their accumulated shit, and the uninterruptible monologue of reminders their mother gave and was still giving as she was walked down the jetway to the plane.

“She’s probably writing them down on British Airways stationery to send to me.” John laughs, pouring himself more iced tea. “but Mouse and I talked about them, all the ones we heard anyway…..and they’re shit, so we made up our own.”

“Wanna hear them?” Mandy is grinning, and both sets of those silver blue eyes are sparkling. “We got them down to two.”

“Two? This I gotta hear.”

“One.” Mandy giggles. “No bringing strangers home. Two, if you’re not going to make it home before tomorrow, call.”

“That’s it? No curfew? No, your guest can stay a half hour and you can sit in the den with me and your father?”

John snorts into his tea. “Christ, she still uses that one? I lost out on a lot of kissing with that damned rule.” 

“So these start when school’s out or what?” He can’t wait. This means he’s finally going to get to the making out part with Mandy. Finally.

“Yes. When school’s out.” John growls. “Not before. You hear me, kid?”

“Loud and clear.” The clock over the stove starts ringing. Five-thirty. They’ve got to haul or he won’t be home by six. And then shit will fly. “We gotta go.” Backpack grabbed, he’s up and standing by the door, accepting Mandy’s kisses, waiting for John to get his keys.

They pull into the alley behind the house with four minutes to spare. “Hey.” John says quietly as he picks up his stuff and reaches for the door handle, “you be strong. Don’t give them the satisfaction of pissing you off. Train up your replacement. That’s the best you can do, Temp. For all of you. You know that, right?”

“Right. Thanks, John.”

“See you , kid.”

“See you.” 

 

But he doesn’t. And he’s not going to. Not until today. Graduation is today. 

He got grounded the moment he walked through the door. Not because he missed curfew. He didn’t. Not because he got angry and said every last thing he’s ever thought about his foster parents. He didn’t. But because someone in the office didn’t mark him as excused for missing his class while he talked to Mr. P. Because the secretary called the office and told Peggy that Templeton Peck wasn’t in sixth hour and did she know where he was. This was the week that Seniors try to skip all the time and North High has very strict rules about that and yadda, yadda, yadda, shit, shit, shit.

He’d thought about telling her he was with Mr. P., but he’d known she would want to know why, and there was no way he was bringing up college, or the missing forms, or anything, with her. No fucking way. So he’d kept his mouth shut while she just got angrier and angrier. While she’d heaped punishments on his head.

He’s done every chore for the two weeks since. And missed every meal; only getting lunch at school because the state pays for it, and she can’t take that away. He’s given forty minutes to get home after school, and locked into the end room after his chores are done, to sleep on the floor. No covers. No pillow. Just linoleum under his cold, tired body.

Needless to say, he’s not making the stage. He did okay on his finals. Not what he should have done. Not by a long chalk. But between the lack of sleep and the gut-gnawing hunger, he couldn’t concentrate. Almost couldn’t think.

He didn’t say a word to Mandy. Couldn’t. Knew it would hurt her too much. Luckily, during finals week the Seniors are kept separate, so she hadn’t seen the last, worst days. He’d covered the weekend by telling her needed to study. He’d hid everything from everyone; kept his head down. 

There’d been an advantage though, one the bitch didn’t know she was giving. The kids had rallied, hung tough, shown him how they could stick together. He’d had more than one whispered conversation with big Jen under the locked door too. And John had been right, he could teach her. Show her how to keep everything together, looking smooth, so they could at least have a little life under the radar. She’d done a hell of a job while he’d been in prison. He was proud.

He got let out this morning at 4am to do his chores, Peggy standing in the doorway, watching him pull himself to his feet. Then he got a lecture, a five minute shower, and his graduation suit. Which he’s putting on. Carefully buttoning his shirt, tying his tie, while Peggy stands in the doorway, eyes on him, smirk on her face.

“This can all be over, Templeton. After today. You do this right. You behave. Punishment ends today.”

That’s bullshit. That’s not all. That’s never all with Peggy. Punishment never stops. Never.

“All you have to do is say, ‘Thank you for helping me learn my lesson.’ Then we all go to graduation. Templeton gets his diploma.”

And you get all the kind looks, and good wishes, and everyone telling you what a saint you are for taking us all in. You get stroked and then I get to eat again. God. God, what a life. But what will he do instead? What can he do? 

“Say it, Templeton. Say it and Jennifer will get you something to eat before we go.”

Bitch! His mind rages. But food, his body reminds.

What did John say? Be strong, he said. Don’t give them the satisfaction of pissing you off. Well, he’s been strong. He didn’t get pissed. He’s got Jen on the right track. All in all, he fucking won this round. For the first time in his life it walks into his head that he’s stronger than Peggy. She doesn’t make him what he is. Only he can do that. It’s all his decision. 

When he gets up and looks Peggy in the eye, he sees the tiny shock there, covered almost immediately, but there, and it confirms it. She kept him locked up for ten days, starved him, worked him like a slave, but that doesn’t mean that’s what he is. She can’t touch what he is. He can get through this. He will. Then he’ll be free.

And he says it, smile on his face, light in his eyes, thinking how true it is, already tasting the wonder of the sandwich Jennifer is going to put together for him. “Thank you for helping me learn my lesson.” 

 

Monday morning is like the Twilight Zone. He gets up when the alarm blats, gets dressed, takes his bathroom time, eats his share of the scrambled eggs and toast, does his chores, and then, nothing. 

Everyone’s rushing to school and Mike and Ran are heading to work, the bus comes for Travis, and there he sits. Even Peggy seems to have forgotten that he won’t be going to school anymore, because she gives a little yelp of surprise when she comes into the kitchen dressed for the office and sees him at the table.

“Templeton.”

The comics fall to the table as he folds his hands and answers. “Yes, ma’am?”

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at …….”

He doesn’t dare say anything. She’ll nail him for being insolent, or talking back, or something. 

A loud, angry sigh escapes her. “You don’t have anything to do all week, do you? Diana doesn’t have your hours changed until school lets out, does she?”

“No, ma’am.” Diana is the Officer Manager at the shop, and no, she hadn’t changed his hours, and trouble’s coming. 

“I’ll talk to her about that as soon as I get there, that’s for sure.” Her glare falls on him and the stacks beside the sink. “Well, you get today out of me. That’s one for you. I’ll have a new schedule for you when I get home. Clean up this house.”

He sits there for at least five minutes after her car rolls down the alley, just listening to the silence, then jumps to his feet, fist in the air. Do the dishes, sweep the floor, garbage out and then the rest of the day belongs to him.

Hands in the hot suds, radio tuned to the forbidden top-forty station, washing dried egg off the cheap china, he pauses when Aerosmith comes on, ‘I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing’, his class song. Graduation’s kind of a blur. All of Saturday is. He was so glad to be out of that room. Happy to finally stop the empty roar in his belly, kind of awed at the realizations he’d come to while he was locked down. 

John wasn’t there. He’d only seen Mandy once or twice across the aud, sitting in her Student Government chair, making sure the folders were kept in order and that the principal had a card for every kid. He hadn’t even got to go up her side of the stage. 

He’d said a few words to the kids he really wanted to talk to during the whole punch and cookies thing. Started to shake Mr. P’s hand; then been pulled into a hug that made him cry just a little while Mr. P told him how proud he was. 

Peggy had grabbed him a few minutes later and told him he was done. He didn’t remember complaining. Didn’t remember much of anything really til Sunday afternoon, except Ran helping him get the suit off and tucking him into bed. He’d slept about sixteen hours, catching up. It had been chili for dinner, and after chores, he’d called Mandy, but no one had answered.

Plug pulled, hands rinsed, he grabs the broom and sweeps the worn tile to the rhythm of Billie Joe Armstrong singing ‘Time of Your Life’, another of his favorites. Once he’s got the pile dumped into the can, he yanks the bag out and ties it. 

Back down the hall for his shoes and his key. Into the kitchen again to flip the radio back to the news/talk station that Peggy always listens to; heaven forbid one day she should miss the rest of one of Paul Harvey’s goddamned stories. Fresh bag installed in the can, he takes a final look. Done. Looking good. 

Trash in hand he steps out the back door and pulls the door shut hard, rattling the knob to make sure it took. The can’s pretty full and he has to punch it down, smelling the combined ick of eight people’s weekly leavings. Even that can’t take the smile off his face, and he vaults the fence into the alley, starting to whistle as he heads toward the bus stop. 

He knows where he’s going.

 

Damn. No one’s home. Scuffing the toe of his sneaker into the rough pile of the welcome mat, he punches the bell with his thumb one more time. Fuck. He really wants to talk to John; tell him thank you.

The street’s so quiet he can hear the bell ringing inside as he taps it again. There’s something under it, something right at the edge of his hearing, familiar, but not. What the fuck is that? 

Still no one answering, so he heads down the warm sidewalk, going back toward the bus stop when he sees the basketball hit the grass of the side yard. That was the sound; the ball, bouncing on the concrete of the back patio. He’s unaware of the beautiful grin on his face as he jogs to get it. John is home.

And muttering to himself as he swings the creaky gate open, looking around.

“Hey. Think fast.” Templeton launches a perfect chest pass, which is plucked out of the air with a finesse that Michael Jordan would envy. 

Blue eyes flash at him and the ball comes shooting back, just as hard. “Well look at you. High School graduate. Roaming around like a fucking delinquent.” John grins, turns, heading back into the yard, beckoning with one of those big hands. “C’mon in, kid. Have a glass of tea while I rehab.”

The tea is fresh, cold, and just a little bit minty. He’s pouring a second glass when he finishes telling John about graduation and starvation and keeping his temper. “So what do you think? Did I do the right thing?”

John is lining up a shot. Fifteen feet out or so. It’s not bad, but there’s a hitch in it that doesn’t belong. He’s not extending; there’s no finish, and he can’t sink one. Hasn’t the whole time. His gray T-shirt is soaked with sweat, and he’s breathing hard, but he keeps going after the ball. Keeps shooting, pushing himself up, forcing it.

“D’you think you did the right thing?” The ball dribbles away across the concrete and John comes over to get a drink, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to answer when the gray cotton pulls up and he sees the pink lines of scar tissue across John’s abdomen, running down toward his right hip and trailing off through the fat of his side. Mandy said bad, but these are beyond that. They put him in mind of the cat they dissected in Biology junior year. Like he survived the autopsy or something.

He tries to keep the knowledge out of his eyes, tries to focus on what they were talking about, but John sees it as soon as the lets the shirt drop. “Pretty fucking ugly aren’t they? Trust me, they feel as good as they look.”

“No wonder you can’t make a shot.” What, Templeton? WHAT? His face feels like global thermonuclear war, and he drops his head into his hands when he hears what he just said. 

But John is laughing. “You little fuck.” Silvery eyes are shooting lightning bolts at him, and the hand that grabs ahold of his T-shirt and pulls him to his feet is gentle but insistent. “Get the ball and put your money where your mouth is, brat.” 

“I’m an orphan, old man.” He teases, jogging over to get the worn leather ball. “I’ve got bus fare home and that’s about it.” The shot he lifts toward the basket is dead on and it swishes through without touching the rim.

“So?” John growls, eyeing him, finishing off his tea, spitting the ice into his hand to rub over his heated skin. “What else you got, boyo?”

“Ummmm. I can cook. Loser makes lunch?”

“You’re on.” John gets right up in his face, hands beside his on the ball, shoving it back into his belly none too gently. “To twelve, Temp. Your ball. Take it out.”

 

Fuck, John’s tall. 

And pretty goddamned fast too. 

But he’s faster. Make that quicker, cause its more about hands and eyes than it is about foot speed.

After the first two minutes, in which there are shoulder blocks, forearm shivers, and one unintentionally wicked knee, it’s pretty clear no one’s gonna get an easy victory. He can’t get over John; and John can’t get around him. But they go on battering at each other, driving the ball to the basket, hip to belly, shoulder to chest. Shooting long range, hands in each other’s faces, poking and laughing and talking shit.

It’s fucking exhausting, but he doesn’t want it ever to end. He’s had some fairly close friends over the years, and some foster brothers who were pretty cool, but no one, not even Ran, who would just play with him. Play like they had nothing but time and like nothing was out of bounds. 

The contact is getting to him too, and the realization makes his face heat. He’s never had a guy he could push against; test his strength on. He wasn’t raised by anyone, more just allowed to grow, and he never had anyone to teach him how to be male; to knock him down and then help him back up again. John’s doing that with every move, every smile, every insult. It feels so good he wants to yell.

Seeing an opening he works his way in and then spins to shoot, only to find that John is already there, hard chest to his chest, ready to block. “You’re getting predictable, kid.” The older man pants out, “try to think further ahead. Two or three steps, not just one.” He shoots, misses badly, and grunts in surprise when John grabs the rebound and passes it back to him, hard. “come here and try it again.”

“But the game…..”

“Do you even remember what the score is?” John asks him, grinning. “I don’t. I was gonna throw it anyway, just so you’d have to wear one of my mother’s aprons.”

The blush really stains his cheeks now, and he wipes his sleeve over them, hiding his own grin. “Fuck the apron bullshit. I wear an apron for no man.”

“Uhhuh. We’ll see. Get your narrow ass over here.” John grabs him by the waist of his shorts and puts them in the same positions. “Think about what you’re doing this time. See it in your head. Think about everything you know about me. Think about my weaknesses and my strengths.”

With that deep voice in his ears, in his head, he follows John’s dictates, thinking, planning. And the next thing he knows he’s faked John almost right out of his shoes and he’s dishing a tasty little layup off the glass and in.

“Nice job.” John growls, holding out a hand for the high-five. “You’re a fast learner. Pretty fucking agile too.”

“Yeah. I had this one foster mother, Mrs. Devorkin? She always said I was part cat, always landing on my feet.” His eyes are drawn to said feet, in their dirty old Adidas. He only got to live with the Devorkin’s for a year or so, til Mr. D lost his job and they moved out of state. It was one of the best places; they weren’t in it for the money, they’d taken him because they wanted a child.

Feeling John’s hand fall gently on his shoulder, he schools his face to impassivity and looks up. “Do you remember your parents at all, Temp?”

The façade starts to fall apart at the look on John’s face, and he attempts a careless shrug that doesn’t quite cover his sorrow. “Nothing to remember. I’m one of those babies you see in cartoons, you know? Rainy night? Basket? Plaintive little note? Where the bird family gets the cat baby? Like that.”

“Did they….she……leave you at a hospital?”

He shrugs again, turning away to get another glass of tea. “Nah. She could have, there were plenty right there, but I guess she was looking for forgiveness. I got handed to a priest at St. John the Divine in New York City. Right uptown and everything.”

He can hear it coming. The ‘I’m sorry’ that is all anyone ever says, that they all think covers it, makes it all better. But John says, “She must have felt something for you. She let you live.”

Hand instinctively flexing around the cool glass, he lets that sink in. He’s never thought of it quite like that before. She could have left him in a trash can, or the gutter, his mother. The thought surprises a smile out of him. “Yeah, yeah, I guess she could have done something a lot worse.” He says, turning back to look at John.

“But she didn’t. She gave you a shot.” John spreads his hands, smile on his face. “And look what you’ve done with it. You’re still here, still fighting the good fight. Going to college, making a life. Lots of people get lost, Temp. Even ones that start with all the advantages. But not you.”

“So it’s like fate, is that what you’re saying?”

“No. Not quite fate. That implies that the ending is the ending; that you’ll get there no matter what. More like a plan, a shape, that everyone has a part in, if they follow their gut.”

Maybe that answers how balding, cordovan shoes fathered the man in front of him. “That why you’re a soldier and not a lawyer?”

“That’s why.” Big, speedy hands grab the basketball and bounce it into the open storage container under the porch. “You feel like a swim, kid? It feels like a hundred degrees out here.”

John’s right. It does. And the pool looks like fucking heaven down at the bottom of the yard, blue and inviting. “I got no swimming suit. Or were you gonna try and make me wear the apron now?”

The older man’s laugh is loud and bright in the warm morning, delighted enough that it makes him grin in response. “There should be at least one of my old ones that’ll fit you.” Nudging open the back door, John grabs the empty pitcher and heads through. “C’mon up to my room and I’ll find you something.”

 

John’s room is a big, filled with books, and, surprisingly enough, toys. Mechanical toys, barrels of Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, Matchbox cars, there’s even a little brass guillotine, and a catapult that fills up the drafting table in the corner.

The older man sees him looking and says, “World History project. Senior year. It even works. We shot apples into the river with it.”

“From school?” That must have been awesome. Totally.

“From the football field.” John’s at the closet now, rummaging through zippered plastic bags. “It was also instrumental in the paint balloons for Senior prank. Damn good distance. And accurate? Fuck, yes. Portable too. Fit right in the back of my pickup. Here you go, kid.”

The trunks John tosses him are deep blue, soft, ‘Body Glove’ printed down one leg. “Thanks.”

John nods, grabbing his own suit from the top of the desk, shoving aside a stack of washed and folded camo. The shirt’s on top, and he can see the patch with ‘SMITH’ printed on it, right over the pocket. “So….what are you? I mean, Mandy said you’re a Ranger, but are you like a…..?” His whole idea of Army comes from his love of learning about Patton and Eisenhower and MacArthur and how they saved the world, and he’s pretty sure it’s still the same things, but…

“Captain. About to be Major.” John sounds angry, or maybe more like hurt. “I’ll get my fucking promotion when I’m finally off fucking sick call. If I ever get off. I don’t want the goddamned leaf anyway. Not for…..fuck it.” The uniforms get pushed even farther over, off, down into the chair. “Let’s go swimming. Bathroom’s through there. I’ll go change downstairs.”

The water is just as cool and wonderful as it looked, and they both swim lazily for a dozen or so laps after a mutual opening cannonball into the deep end. He can see John stretching out those long arms and legs, arching his back as he slips through the water. The scars are more visible now, cutting across hard muscles and searing through the light hair on John’s midriff. The kind of pain that comes with those scars is unimaginable, and to have to just keep moving, fighting through it to get back where you were, that’s gotta be close to hell. 

But just like he did on the court, John keeps at it, pushing himself, going right to his own edge and then one more. The exhaustion is clear on his face when he wades out and grabs a brightly colored air mattress, dragging it back in with him, collapsing down across it, belly supported, arms and legs in the water.

“You ok?” Temp asks softly as John floats by, eyes closed.

“Yeah. Just tired. My energy’s taking the long road, I guess.”

The opening is there, he could ask and probably get an answer, but he’s kind of afraid to touch it. The last thing he wants is for John to feel more pain.

The mattress spins as John paddles, turning in the current from the cleaner and cracking an eyelid. “So what’re you doing for the rest of the summer, kiddo?”

“Working. I do a lot of the data entry at the Jaynes’ shop for Diana. She runs the office. June and July’re busy. Inventory and year end stuff. So I’ll be full-time mostly, until I have to go to school, I guess.” The end of the mattress moves gracefully past his nose and he grabs hold, asking with his eyes.

Moving his arm over a fraction, John gives him a lazy smile and a nod and he pushes up with a splash, settling on the slick plastic, stretching himself out so they don’t roll into each other.

“Mouse got a job. She tell you? At that jewelry store she likes. Thank god mom’s not here. She’d shit a ring around herself.”  
“Smiths don’t work?”

“Not Mandy Mouse. My mother doesn’t believe in that. I’m twenty-nine this year, which makes mom fifty-two. She had a debut, with orchids and candlelight, and a thirty-piece orchestra. And no daughter of hers……you know the drill.” 

John’s reaching into the pool, splashing water up onto his back and shoulders, dousing his hair. The droplets shine against his tan skin, sparkle in his eyelashes, slip through the copper-colored stubble on his chin. He looks………well, he doesn’t look any twenty-nine that’s for sure. Suddenly he’s awfully aware of his own exercised body, and John’s, and the warm lap of the water around them.

“Thank you.” He blurts, pulling his gaze away, gathering up his own handful of water to dump on his rapidly warming neck. “for the advice and everything. I don’t have anyone to talk to really, and it’s…..thanks.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo.” John’s voice is a low murmur. “I don’t have anyone to talk to either. I make my whole damned family nervous. Except Mandy, and she’s just a kid.” He hears the muted splash and then feels John’s wet hand slide up over his hair and down his neck. It feels, oh damn, it feels, and he slips off the edge of the mattress without a sound as John pushes him into the cool water, laughing softly. “Let’s get some lunch. I’m starving. And I’m gonna fall asleep on this damned thing. Some kid wore me right the fuck out.”

 

The day has come off hot, just like John said, and they’re stretched out in the shade on the chaises when Mandy comes out the back door in her school clothes, looking around.

She must have seen the remains of lunch, which was a mutual effort. He made the hamburgers and John opened the beer. And nobody wore an apron.

“Hey, Mouse.” John lifts his bottle in welcome. “Grab a beer and have a seat.”

“Hey, Johnny. You corrupting my boyfriend here?” Head tipped to catch her warm lips, Temp leans into the kiss, savoring it. “He tastes awfully Budweiser-y.”

“Never in this life, Mouse. I gave him two…..no….make that three beers. We had one while the burgers cooked.”

John drains his beer and sets the empty on the pavement, smiling, watching them kiss. “I was hoping I’d see you.” Mandy whispers softly, reaching into her purse. The envelope she hands him is creamy white, expensive, and it smells like her, all flowery and sweet.

“Yeah. What’s this?”

“Your graduation present. Since I couldn’t get to you at the ceremony, and you were like Casper the Friendly Ghost all the week before.” He doesn’t let his expression change, and he can feel John’s eyes on him, silently telling him to hold the line. Mandy doesn’t need to know what Peggy put him through. Ever.

The crisp paper crackles and the card he pulls out is covered with hearts and flowers. Inside is written ‘Happy Graduation’ and a ton of little exes and ohs. There’s a handwritten little coupon in there too. For dinner and a movie. “Thanks.” It’s damned sweet, her smile.

“Saturday. Johnny’s even donating his truck to the cause that night, right big brother?”

John is leaning back again, eyes closed, enjoying the sun. “Damned straight.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Wherever you want.” John puts in. “Because not only am I donating the truck, I’m fronting her for dinner too. “So aim high, Temp. You only graduate from High School once.”  
There’s only one choice in his mind. “Beefeater.”

“Steak?” Mandy is looking at him fondly, like he’s some kind of caveman. Little does she know how much he craves a big hunk of meat. It’s expensive, and they don’t get it a lot, hardly ever. John had given him somewhat the same look as he made the burgers at lunch, adding meat until the damned thing was the size of a dinner plate. He’d eaten every single sloppy bite.

“Good call.” John is getting up, stretching. “You’ll have a great time. I really need a shower and a nap, guys. Temp, you can get home all right?”

“Yeah. I wanted to bet my bus fare, but some old guy wouldn’t take it.”

John laughs, flips him off and disappears into the house.

“So what’d you guys do?” Mandy asks, toeing off her shoes and pulling her feet up, knees under her chin.

“Played basketball. Swam.”

“Thanks, Temp.” There are tears in Mandy’s eyes, and in her shaky voice.

“For what?”

“For hanging out with him. For, oh everything. I told you he was having a hard time and for you to come over…….” That soft little mouth is on his again, and for a split-second he sees pool water sparkling in dark eyelashes, and then everything winks out as Mandy opens her mouth for him. It’s hot and wet, and he really has to get out of this chair.

He can feel Mandy’s surprise as he pulls away and gets up. He wants her, damn it, he does. Doesn’t he? What the hell was he thinking about?

“Temp?”

Grabbing the nearest towel, he rubs it through his hair and then down his chest. “I gotta get home, honey. Peggy’s already on my ass. I don’t want to be grounded for Saturday.”

His girl gets up and grins at him, coming to his arms for one last kiss. “You sure don’t. Cause I’ve got a special present for you on Saturday. Just you wait.”

 

By Saturday evening he’s nervous as all hell. But life is running pretty smoothly for once. He’s gotten his schedule worked out. Peggy had Diana put him on from six in the morning until two in the afternoon. Which is fucking awesome, because he’s been able to head home, do his chores, and get to the house right around the time Mandy gets home. 

He and John usually have a game of horse or something while she’s changing, and then they all just hang out, sit by the pool, talk, until he has to head home for curfew. Wednesday night John taught them to play poker, or tried, and they got him laughing so hard he could hardly sit up. It was damned good to see him laugh like that; make him laugh like that. Those blue eyes sparkling.

There’s a rap on the bathroom door. “Hey, Temp.”

“Hey, Jen.”

“Got your shirt pressed. Want it?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Swinging the door open, he meets big Jen’s lovely hazel eyes and takes the shirt. “Thanks sweetie.”

“Welcome.” Jen watches him put it on, add his tie, and slip into his jacket. He’s wearing the graduation suit again. Surprisingly enough, Peggy gave the ok when he asked.

“Mandy Smith is a lucky girl.” Jen breathes, reaching her five foot even up to kiss his six foot one. “If you weren’t my brother………….”

“I’m not your brother.” He teases, hugging her tight. “And that kid, what’s that new kid’s name that Mike hired? The one that keeps asking me who you are?”

“Brett.” Jen is blushing, he can feel it against his chest.

“Oh, you know his name!” He yelps as Jen pokes him hard in the ribs, pushing him away.

“He’s nice, Templeton. Really nice. He bought me a burrito from the snack truck yesterday while I was down there.”

“So nice guy Brett wants to know your name, buys you a burrito. I cannot compete with that, Jennifer. I’m sorry.” He throws a hand over his heart and grins at her. “I just can’t.”

“And I can’t compete with Mandy Smith.” She giggles. “Not that I want to. But I do love you, Temp.”

“Me too, you.” Brush in hand, he works at his hair until it falls just right. “Good? Awesome? Do I stink or anything?”

Jen leans in and gives him a huge, theatrical sniff and shakes her head. “You’re good, lover. Knock her dead.”

 

The bus is mercifully empty, and he sits, elbows on knees, chin in hand, thinking about tonight. He’s pretty sure what his special present is. Only problem is he’s not sure how to accept it, if he even should accept it. Mandy’s only sixteen, going on seventeen, and most likely a virgin. Not that he’s anything like experienced. He’s never gone all the way either. Not that he wouldn’t want to. Mandy’s beautiful. Warm. There are eyes in his mind, silver blue, and a cool hand on his neck, and he’s floating in all that warm, lapping blue. Such amazing eyes.

“Hey, kid. Kid! Ain’t this your stop, boy?” The driver is looking at him, waiting.

“Yeah, thanks.” Once he’s on the sidewalk, heading toward the house, he jams his hands into his pockets and tries to get back to the thought, memory maybe?, of those eyes. When was that? Was it when they met? Was it when he was kissing her? When?

He doesn’t bother with the doorbell, just knocks and turns the knob. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey me.” John yells at him from the back of the house. “Come out here and help me for a second will you? Mouse is still getting her shit together.”

John’s in the family room. A real family room. The TV is here, and the stereo and all the games. He’s putting something together. God knows what. There’s a couple of plastic pieces on the floor and a bag of sand, and… “is that a dummy, John?”

“Sort of.” John’s getting to his feet, sliding pieces together. He grabs up the big rubber guy that’s lying by the sofa and lifts him high, dropping him down around the plastic spindle.

“Ouch.” He can’t help the little snort of laughter.

“Dry too.” John growls, slapping the dummy hard in his rubber ribs. “Grab the bag of sand and get ready to pour, yeah?”

Back on his knees, John guides while he tips and the sand pours into the plastic base, filling it all the way.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“What the fuck is this thing?”

“Sparring partner. Got to get my hand to hand back, now that my abs are mostly healed.” 

Jerking back, a little shocked by the vicious combo of fists and shins and elbows that John lays on the dummy in the blink of an eye, he stares a minute, gaze catching on the ink on John’s hard left bicep, and then sliding down his lean body, appreciating the fluid grace, the power residing in those long limbs. Like a lion. Some kind of big cat, anyway. A killer.

“Hey, Templeton.” Mandy’s voice distracts him, and he looks over. “You met John’s new friend I see.”

She’s a vision. Little black dress. Pearls. Heels. Hair done just so. Only he wants to look back at John, watch those strikes landing, see that body move. It’s like watching Shaq dunk, or the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby.

“Um, yeah. Hey. You look awesome, honey.”

Mandy does a little spin, arms out, and stops, that sweet smile in place, all for him. Everything for him. God she’s delicious.

“Thanks.” The kiss she blows him is pure promise and he feels himself twitch. When did he get this boner by the way? “Hey, Johnny. Where’s your keys, big brother?”

“counter.” John grunts in response, arms pistoning, hips turning to throw a round kick that knocks the damned dummy flat. “Ha. Motherfucker. Get up asshole.” He snaps as the thing slowly sways back upright.

“Jesus. Testosterone overload.” Mandy giggles, tossing him the keys and approaching John warily. “bye, John.”

John yanks his T-shirt over his head and wipes his face and chest, then bends to kiss Mandy absently. “Be good. Both of you. Remember rule number two, huh.”

He doesn’t want to leave. Rather grab a beer and watch John beat the crap out of that dummy, then have a swim.

It’s not until they’re long done with dinner and parked on a quiet back road, Mandy’s panties lying on the seat of John’s truck, his own clothes around his ankles, rubbing against each other in a fast, perfect rhythm, Mandy kissing him and gasping into his mouth, that he realizes it. Climax hits him like a freight train and he falls out of himself, and those are John’s silver blue eyes he’s seeing. John’s eyes he was dreaming about, and John’s cool hand, and he erupts, helpless and shaking, rutting against the soft skin of Mandy’s warm belly, washed to transparency.

 

By the time they’ve done kissing, got cleaned up and back in their underwear, he’s almost convinced himself that whatever he was thinking, it was some kind of fever dream. All wrapped up with how much he likes John, appreciates his company, wants to be like him. He’s not gay or whatever. And John’s certainly not. John would probably knock his head off if….stupid to even think that. Just stupid.

“Was it right, Temp?” Mandy’s hand is in his hair, her small chin balanced on his shoulder as she presses close. “Did I do it right? Even if it wasn’t, you know, everything?”

He’d said no to that. She’d offered. Been a little hurt when he declined. But he wasn’t ready, and she wasn’t either, no matter what she thought.

“It was really nice, honey.” That’s all he can think of to say. It was nice. Sweet. She’s sweet. “Did you? I mean, was it…right for you?

The soft kiss that lands on his ear is her only answer, and he hopes it means she enjoyed it as much as he did.

“You better get me home, Temp.” Mandy’s soft fingers stroke down his arm and tap gently at the dashboard clock. “I don’t have to worry about being late, but you do, and you will be if we don’t go.”

The front light’s on, but the house is dark as they pull into the driveway. John can’t have gone to bed, he’s got to drive him home; the buses don’t make the trip he needs this late. Mandy throws her arms around him as he shuts off the ignition, cuddling close to him, lips on his. “Temp.”

“Mandy.”

“I love you Templeton.” Then she’s gone. Out of the truck and up the walk and into the house, leaving the door wide open. What the fuck was that? Was that happy? Sad? What?

Before he can get out, follow her, see if there’s a problem, John’s there. Still barefoot, sweatshirt now instead of the T-shirt, getting in the door that Mandy left open. And he’s only got enough time to make the drive.

 

“You’re awfully quiet, kid.” John observes, pushing the dash lighter in, rolling his smoke between his fingers as they back out of the drive. “Everything go ok?”

“I don’t know.”

At John’s look, all he can do is repeat it. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if she’s mad at me, or happy, or, I just don’t know. Not a goddamned thing.”

“Fight?” John growls, touching the red-hot coil to the end of the cigar, blowing out fragrant smoke.

“No. We did not fight. We did not argue. We had a nice dinner and then……….” Face red, he stops. This is Mandy’s big brother. He’s likely to get punched right out the door.

“You parked.” John’s not asking, so he doesn’t respond, he just drives. “Was there a problem?”

“Jesus Christ, John!” He so does not want to talk about this. The moment comes back in all its clarity. The moment when he came, and thought about the man sitting next to him. Thought about John’s wet hand in his hair, slipping gently down his neck.

“Relax, Temp. If I was going to hit you, I’d have done it.” Jesus. If only that were the problem.

“But she’s your sister.” He whispers, beating his traitorous brain into submission.

“She’s my sister, and if I thought you didn’t care about her, thought you’d taken advantage, I’d hurt you. Badly. But you do care. A lot, I think. And she flew past me without saying a word. So…”

“How do you know if you’re making someone happy, John?”

“Listen.”

“Listen?”

“Listen. To everything they say and everything they don’t say.”

The alley’s coming up, and he turns in, stops, leans back in the seat, and takes a deep breath. “I really like her. I do. But, there’s so much stuff, and I’m leaving for four years, maybe forever, and your parents hate me, and……” 

I think I might have a crush on another guy, who just happens to be her older brother, who just happens to be you. So what do I do about that, John? Huh?

None of that comes out, thank god, and he scrubs his face with his hands. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, John.”

“I get that, Temp. You need to talk, you already said you’re not good at that, but you need to do it. And you need to listen.”

“I think we need to slow down, that’s what I think.” He snorts at that. He’s gotta be the only teen-aged boy in the world who’d pet to orgasm with Mandy Smith and then want to back off.

“Then say it. Talk to her. Tell her how you feel. That’s the only way to deal with someone you care for, kid.”

Hand rummaging through his hair, he nods, feeling like a total idiot, wanting now to say all kinds of things that will only make trouble. For all of them.

“Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow, okay?”

 

The coffeepot’s filling as Temp steps in the back door of the shop and pulls it shut behind him. Mickey’s here. Mickey’s the drop off guy. Jaynes Tire accepts vehicles starting at 5am, and Mickey is the guy that signs them in and parks them along the block wall for the techs. He’s the only one who’s ever here before him, and bless him, he makes damned good coffee.

Which he needs this morning. Unlocking the accounting office door, he drops his lunchbag in the desk chair and snaps on the light, grabbing up his big insulated mug. His birthday was yesterday. And his birthday parties were yesterday. The gang here at the shop had been forbidden to do anything except get him a cake and sing him a song; Peggy didn’t like interruptions in their working day. 

Home had been better. Jen and Jen had made beef stroganoff and strawberry pie, two of his favorites. Mike and Peggy had given him a wallet. Ran and the kids had all gone in together and bought him a new backpack. It was huge and had dozens of pockets and Scott had whispered to him how they’d seen it downtown and thought it was perfect for him to take to college. He’d cried.

John and Mandy’s party for him had been the best. But that was because only the three of them had been invited. Things were pretty good there right now. He’d mostly taken John’s advice from the night of the graduation dinner. He’d called Mandy, told her he cared about her and explained how he felt the best he could. She’d cried a little, laughed a little, told him he was kind of an asshole, to which he had heartily agreed, and they’d decided to slow down, keep it simple.

It’s anything but simple with John. Not that he’s ever said anything. Not that he would. But that hasn’t stopped the heat he feels when John parks his shoulder in the middle of his chest when they’re shooting baskets, or pushes him off the air mattress and ducks him in the pool. He doesn’t really know how to feel about it. Sometimes it’s so damn frustrating he gets nuts and goes and punches John’s dummy until his hands hurt. Other times it’s so enticing he lies in bed at night with his T-shirt between his teeth and teases his cock, tugging at the head with his fingertips, imagining John’s mouth. He feels dirty when he does it, but he just can’t stop. 

Last night was one of those nights, the enticing ones. He’d gone over after his chores were done to find them sitting by the pool, cooler of beer between their chairs, radio on, handmade cupcakes and two wrapped presents on the table beside the third chair.

Mandy had jumped up and kissed him, and John had pulled him in close and hugged him hard, both of them wishing him happy birthday.

“Want us to sing?” John had growled, squeezing his shoulder. “Or have you been sung to enough?”

“Way enough.” He plopped into the chair and accepted the beer John opened for him.

“Well open the presents, Temp.” Mandy had insisted, pressing the first one into his hand. “This is from me.”

The package is big and weighty, and he tears it open to find a black leather car coat, smooth and buttery and gorgeous. “Wow. Mandy. Thanks.”

“Welcome, Temp. It’s going to be cold walking across that campus every day. Now you’ll be warm.” The second present is deposited in his hands. “And this is from Johnny.”

This package is smaller, heavier, square. “I hope you like it, kiddo.”

When the paper comes off and he sees the Tag Heuer emblem on the box he almost drops it. “John, you shouldn’t…”

“Hey, that’s my call, not yours. I saw it and it told me it wanted to belong to you. Open it.”

The watch is gorgeous. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and he just doesn’t, he can’t. “John, I…”

“Put it on. You have to keep it. I had them take a few links out so it’d fit you. They’re in the box for when you grow. Put it on, Temp.”

And he had. And it fit. Perfectly. And he knew he was going to keep it, and cherish it. “I’m going to have to leave it here. The coat too. Until I leave for school. Peggy might….”

“Not a problem, kid. You can leave them here as long as you need to.” So he did. He doesn’t remember where. He had a few more beers before John took him home. 

They’d sat in the truck in the alley in companionable silence, while he tried to make sure he wasn’t going to fall on his face and wake everyone in the neighborhood.

“Happy eighteen, Temp.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the watch, John. ’s beautiful. Really.”

“Welcome. It shone at me. Like you.”

Everything in him had surged up at that, and he’d come way too close to touching John’s beautifully muscled arm, the deep tan on John’s skin gone pale in the moonlight.

“Diamond in the rough, huh? Just like Aladdin.”

John’s deep chuckle had brought out his own grin as they looked at each in the warm dark. “You’re not just like anyone, Temp.”

Every instinct told him that John was flirting with him. He’s been flirted with enough in his life, by both sexes, that he’s rarely wrong about it. But he must be; he has to be. Because if he’s not, well, damn, then what?

John had checked the clock and shoved his shoulder; told him to get the fuck out of his truck and go sleep it off.

He’d tried. He really had. Everyone else had been asleep. Even Travis, his television dark and his room quiet. He’d cleaned up, washed the day off and crawled into his bed, studiously not thinking about John’s voice in the dark, John’s muscles, John’s eyes. Lay flat on his belly, hands under his pillow, trying to keep himself honest.

Hadn’t worked. The white wall in front of his eyes had become a screen for his mental movies, and they had been X-rated. John in shorts and a T-shirt, catching his wrist, pulling him close, running those big, strong hands over his arms, his back, his ass. John in the pool, on the air mattress, long, lean, tanned body on display, moving close to kiss him, water sparkling on his face, in long, dark lashes, silver blue eyes shining with desire. And John’s mouth. That soft, beautiful mouth.

He’d flipped over fast, tugging his boxer briefs down and pushing them off with his feet, shoving them to the end of the bed. Kicked the sheet down, spreading his legs wide, showing off his naked body, wishing John was there to see.

Hand tight around his cock, he’d started stroking slow, exploring himself with his other hand. Nipples first, plucking gently until the peaks formed, then just pressing the taut buds, feeling himself arching to the contact. Thumb brushing the sensitive cup of his navel as he moved lower, down to caress the soft weight of his sac, each of his balls gently rolled between thumb and fingers. Then the tender slope from there to his asshole. He’d just found out lately how much he liked to be touched there, especially when he’s close to coming; it’s like stepping on the gas. 

Finally that firm little pucker; one finger, wet with spit, teasing, testing. It’s a strange feeling, but a good one, and he’d worked a little longer on it last night, pressing the pad of his finger through the muscle while he ran his thumb over the velvet crown of his cock, trying to imagine John’s finger piercing him. Or John’s cock.

He’d pretty much lost it then. Right there. Cupping the eager, throbbing head in his palm, tugging slow and even while his thumb stroked and he worked his finger in and out, his mind forming images of John above him, holding him, thrusting hard and harder, deep and deeper. 

Jaw locked, legs spread, ass canted high, he’d come like a firestorm, warm wet jets splashing up as far as his throat, feeling his own tight ring flutter around his finger, then clench, and clench, and clench. 

It was good. So good. Feeling himself ebbing slowly back from the middle distance, wanting a cuddle and a kiss, and hard, tanned arms to fall asleep in.

“Templeton?” Mickey’s voice, and his knuckles rapping on the frosted glass snap him back to the present, back to guilty longing for something he can’t have, something he isn’t even supposed to want. “Hey, Templeton. Coffee’s ready.”

 

By the time Diana arrives at quarter of eight, he’s got the new employees entered, the time sheets totaled and on the spreadsheet and the hours put into payroll. He did all the corporate billing and ran the credit cards from yesterday too. And he hasn’t thought about John. Much.

Work takes over his mind as he and Diana get into the swing of payroll day, printing checks, paying taxes, and processing reports. He likes working with her; she’s quiet and professional, and she respects him, appreciates his abilities, makes sure to thank him for his help every day he’s here. It’s nice, and they make a good team.

It registers eventually that Peggy’s arrived, the receptionist is scurrying around with tears in her eyes, the Purchasing guys are bent studiously over their catalogues, and the dispatcher has retreated into his small office and shut the door. 

He’s just stacking the checks in neat, separate piles to take into the bitch’s office when the outer door to the reception area flies open and hits the wall with a bang. There are three men filling the doorway, looking around. The biggest of them goes straight for Peggy’s office while the mustached one turns back toward the girl at the reception desk. The third one’s coming their way and he and Diana exchange a look and silently slide all their work into the deep desk drawer and lock it. Quick.

They guy stops in the doorway and looks them over, reaching into his jacket. “Police officer.” The dull gold of the badge flashes in the glare of the fluorescents. “I’m going to need you both to leave what you’re doing, get me some identification, and step out here. Now.” 

He can feel his heart start to gallop in his chest. As many times as he’s hoped that something just like this might happen, that authority would step in and stop Peggy and Mike in their tracks, the reality of it happening is nothing but pure, unadulterated terror. “What’re you doing here?” Diana asks softly, voice quavering. “What’s going on?”

The guy steps inside and tucks the badge away, motioning them both up out of their chairs. “Please. Just get the ID and come on out here.”

“Go on, Temp.” Diana’s hand is gentle on his shoulder as she picks up her purse. “Do what he says, honey.”

He can’t stop the shaking in his hands as he and Diana join the dispatcher and the two clerks from Purchasing in the middle of the room. A quick glance tells him that the big guy is still in Peggy’s office. Voices are being raised. Peggy’s beginning to get to that level that means someone’s going to be hurting for this. 

The dispatcher makes a startled sound and they turn as one to look through the big glass doors to the bays. There are more cops out there. These are uniformed guys and they’re making everyone stop right where they are and put down their tools. His heart lurches in chest as he sees Ran set down his wrench and back away from the car he’s working on, a terrified look on his face, head swiveling as he hunts for Mike. And there’s Mike. Being handcuffed.

A scream of pure rage cuts through the already shocked silence, and the short hairs on the back of his neck rise. It’s a black noise, Peggy at her worst, and it makes him remember things he’d rather forget. And then the cop is in his face, asking him to get out his ID please, and when he does, the look on the guy’s face scares him worse than Peggy’s fury. “You’re one of the kids aren’t you? The foster kids? Right?”

His lips are frozen, the words little blocks of ice. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, you can relax, son. It’s all over.”

“Over?”

“Yeah. Over. You guys are why we’re here.”

 

The police station is a cold, cold place. The detective that brought him and Ran down had slipped off his jacket and given it to him, but it didn’t help. He’s still frozen.

They’d separated the two them as soon as they got there, sticking Ran into a room further down the corridor and depositing him in here. Then two other detectives had come in to talk to him, get his story. One of them had been Brett, the guy that big Jen thought was in love with her, and he’d pretty much given up all hope of this dying quietly right there. 

No one would confirm anything about the complaints, not at liberty to discuss that with you Templeton. Though they’d been at liberty to ask him how many days he’d gone without eating and whether they were ever physically restrained, and if and when Mike or Peggy abused him sexually.

He answered every question as fully and completely as he could. Hiding nothing, telling everything, and asking every five minutes when he could see the kids. The cops had kept telling him soon, and it won’t be long, and more bullshit, but he’d realized they just didn’t want their evidence contaminated. Wanted the story from each victim, one on one. He couldn’t blame them really, they’d explained to him before they started the recorder how rare it was that they were able to go from arrest all the way to conviction in cases like these. Usually they’re not able to catch anyone until things go too far and kid dies. They want this one. Badly.

Once they’d done with questions about home, they started in on the office, and what he’d seen of the finances, and did he know anything about the corporate contracts and how those were arranged and who signed them, and it had walked into his head that Mike and Peggy were in more trouble than their six foster kids could have ever made for them.

He’d answered those questions too, as well as he could, but he’d never had access to the really high level stuff. Feeling like shit, he’d had to say that Diana was the one who might know those answers. Looking up at the clock, he’s a little shocked to see that it’s nearly six. The last question had been asked about an hour ago. They have to be done with the other kids by now. Had anyone fed them? They certainly hadn’t offered him anything to eat. Did anyone remember that Travis needed his meds? 

There’s a rattle of the doorknob, and, Christ maybe finally they’re going to let him out. Before he can move the door swings wide and they’re there, all of them, rushing toward him. Big Jen commandeers his right arm while little Jen tries to climb his leg and Scott throws his arms around his middle and just hangs on. Travis is sitting in his wheelchair, smiling tiredly, and he reaches through the tumult to grip the younger boy’s shoulder with loving force. Everyone’s babbling and crying and it takes a minute for him to get that Scott’s saying he can’t go back to that big scary group home, and what are they going to do?

The brisk lady from Child Protective Services starts shushing and giving orders and telling them that they’re going to have to get in the van. The chorus of anguish from the kids, the way they all cling closer to him fazes her not at all, and his stomach turns. “I’ll come with you. Guys, I’ll be there. Nothing bad’ll happen, I swear it.”

“Please don’t make promises you cannot keep, Mr. Peck.” She snaps, glaring at him. “You are no longer a ward of this state, as I have explained to the detectives. I cannot take you with me, even if I wanted to.” Little Jen wails like a dying kitten and the woman stares at him, silently asking him to stop hindering and start helping. And because he loves them all so much, he makes them let go of him, one by one, shushing questions, drying tears.

“Kay. We all knew this was going to happen sometime, huh? Right? We were prepped for me to go to college. Jen’s going to lead now, just like we planned.”

“But Temp….” Jen is knuckling at her wet eyes. “That was…..we weren’t going to get pulled apart.”

“Well, here’s what. Jen, all of you. I’ll bet if you agreed that you’d get in the van, and go where they need you to go, Ms….”

“Hart.” The brisk woman supplies, with an apologetic smile.

“Ms. Hart would probably agree that they could find you a place where you can all stay together, even if it is a group home. I mean, this is a pretty traumatic experience, and they only want what’s best for you. Right, Ms. Hart? You could do that, couldn’t you?” You will do that, won’t you?, his level stare is saying. You need these kids. And they’ve lost everything else. The least you could do is let them keep each other.

The woman’s staring back at him while she processes the question, and a real smile comes to her features. “I think you’re exactly right. We could make that happen.” 

The sighs of relief, and the outrush of tension are palpable. “Good. So, c’mon. Let’s get you all to the van.” 

Big Jen takes little Jen’s hand, and then Scott’s, turning for the door, and Ms. Hart stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. You could have made that so much harder.”

“Yeah.” Shrugging out of the detective’s coat, he rubs a hand over his tired eyes, his clammy jaw, rough with stubble. “So what am I going to do? Huh? Any answers for that?”

“This sounds like bullshit, but I do have a sheet with shelters on it. But you must have someone that you can stay with. A friend? The other adult, Randall? He left with someone from the business.”

Well, that’s good, at least Ran’s safe. There are places he can go. Diana and her husband would let him stay there in a heartbeat. But why is he kidding himself? He wants John. “I’ll find somewhere, Ms. Hart, and thanks, really, for taking care of the kids.”

She presses a piece of pasteboard into his hand, her business card, and says, “call me tomorrow. Once I get them all settled, we can find a way for them to stay together permanently. I’d value your input. They trust you, and they love you.”

And then she’s gone, and the detectives are back, and he has to make a decision.

 

The young guy, the one whose name isn’t really Brett, but Detective Lanny Collins, claps him gently on the shoulder and speaks right up. “I should warn you, there are news cameras everywhere. If you want to get your things from the house, I can take you over there, but you can’t stay. Crime scene.”

News cameras? Oh fuck. He should have thought of that. He can’t take his personal shit and throw it all over John and Mandy. There’s going to be enough talk as it is; they don’t need Action News Nine at their door. “Yeah. Yeah, I wanna go get my stuff. Can we get in without them getting all over us?”

“Sure. Alley behind your house is closed off. We can get in from the other end. Cameras won’t even pick you up, probably.”

“Cool. Can we go now?”

Detective Collins gives him an appraising look and nods. “Sure.”

 

The clerk at the hole in the wall rooming house where Detective Collins took him is eyeing his haphazardly stuffed backpack and the white grocery bag hanging from his hand. “No cooking in the rooms, kid.”

“No. I wasn’t…….this is just granola bars and soda and stuff.” All portable. Nothing that requires upkeep. Detective Collins had taken him to the market after they finished at the house; after he’d told him about the little place that the department sometimes stashes people that need a few days of hiding.

“Kay. Eighteen bucks a night. Plus tax.” The guy’s face clearly says he doesn’t think he’s got it, but he does. His stash of cash and his clothes were the only things he’d taken from the chilly, abandoned place that was where he’d lived for the last four years, stuffing everything he owned into his new backpack, dashing tears from his eyes at the mess the cops had made of every room, the utter disintegration of eight lives.

Fishing a twenty out of his pocket, he passes it over and waits for his change. The rest of the roll is at the bottom of his pack, wrapped in a bandanna and stuffed in the sleeve of his jean jacket. It’s never a good idea to show that you have something; more than the people around you have. He’s going to have to start living by those mean old rules again.

“3F. Back of the house. Bathroom at the end of the hall. There’s a sheet outside the door, showers go by sign up only.” The guy says, dropping coins into his hand, and supplying a worn key on a leather strap. “I like quiet, and I don’t keep drunks or junkies or any of that shit.”

“Got it.” 

“You don’t make trouble and we’ll get along fine. If you’re gonna stay I need your money by noon every day.”

“Got it.” If he counted right in the dark, he’s got enough to stay here for eight days, no longer. And that’s if he only eats what’s in the grocery bag.

The stairs are old, walls painted an industrial tan, but the place is clean and the door locks securely behind him. What a fucking mess this is. Fucking balls-up. Out of the frying pan and right into the goddamned fire.

His belly cramps, asking for a little satisfaction here, and he drops his pack and fumbles through the clingy plastic for an apple and a bottle of Vitamin Water. Collapsing on the narrow bed, he devours the apple in four quick bites and instantly wants more. The Vitamin Water doesn’t do it for him either; now his stomach isn’t just growling, it’s snarling, doing its King Kong impression.

Going down the hall to the bathroom, he refills the plastic bottle with water and drinks it down, then again, then fills it and caps it. He’s gonna have to piss six times between now and dawn, but at least he’s got the illusion of fullness. At least he’ll be able to sleep.

The glassy black of the old TV on the dresser top watches him silently as he strips down to his underwear and slides into the thankfully clean, though bleachy-smelling, bed. He’s not turning the damn thing on. Watching his life come apart will only make the fact of his life coming apart harder to bear. The vultures will roost on Mr. P, and his teachers, and the other kids’ teachers and friends and people they passed on the street before they finally give up and more on to a fresh kill. 

The last thought in his mind as exhaustion catches him in its grip is that he hopes John is protecting Mandy, hopes that John understands why he has to stay away from them. He holds those eyes in his mind and lets himself slide down, comforted by the warmth in the depths of all that blue.

 

Apparently John didn’t get the memo.

When a big hand catches him by throat and pulls him out of sleep in the pit of the night, he fights. Fights with everything he’s got. Everything he’s got is nothing compared to the strength that’s holding him down, however, cutting off his air. “Stop struggling, Temp. Stop struggling and I’ll let you breathe.”

His brain and his body realize that it’s John at roughly the same moment and his hands fly up off hard shoulders, releasing their grip on the soft cotton of John’s T-shirt, and then flop back down, relaxing, surrendering. He can feel the steady beat of John’s heart through the layers of cotton that separate them, feel him breathing, slow and even. He was right, he knew it, this is a one-man wrecking crew, a killer, lying on top of him in this bed, controlling his every move.

Opening his eyes, he looks up into John’s, giving the silent promise. But the older man is already releasing him, thumb sliding off his windpipe, body slipping sideways to rest beside his, hand running back through his own hair. “Just what the hell were you thinking, Temp?”

“How’d you find me?” He sounds a little hoarse, and there’s an ache in his throat, so he bends up to get his water, rubbing under the line of his jaw, feeling the bruise rising. That hand could have choked the life out of him, could have broken his neck without a sound if John chose. 

The inelegant snort that greets his question is more than enough answer. Either John has connections or he’s a singularly bad escape artist. Maybe some of both. Water deposited back on the table, he lies back down against the blessed warmth of John’s side, wanting to feel that steady heartbeat.

“Why’d you hide? I can’t help you if you hide from me, kid. I was out of my mind worrying about you once we saw the evening news.” John’s arm turns into an iron bar between them, his big fist clenched on his own belly, and he can feel the muscles flex and relax as a growl accompanies the unconscious need the older man has to break something.

He wants to touch. Open that fist and slide his hand in, over calluses and scars and the broad warmth of palm. And maybe he’ll do it, but he needs to answer first. Needs to explain, take the anger and hurt out of John’s voice, out of his heart.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. Take this kind of problem into your house, John. You don’t need that shit. Bad enough they’ll probably be on to Mandy by tomorrow anyway.”

“They already are. I told them to fuck off on the phone. And I might have thrown one off the porch. Possibly two.”

He starts laughing. Hard. Can’t help it. Picturing that pencil-dick from Channel Nine flying into Ann Smith’s heirloom climbing roses, perfect hair fallen down over his eyes, screaming like a little girl. He can feel the movement of John’s long frame as he gives in and starts laughing too. “I hope you got good distance with him.”

“I fucking did.” John’s fist is relaxed now, and he lifts his arm, bending it up under his head, letting their bodies move a little closer. Not to mention releasing his scent, a warm, musky male thing that wraps around his head and makes him slightly dizzy. Dizzier yet when he opens his mouth and takes a deeper breath of John, tasting the flavor on his tongue. “Bastard was smart enough to stay there til the cops came. Wasn’t happy when they told him he was trespassing and they’d arrest him if he didn’t get gone.”

“Did you call them John?”

“Actually I think Mrs. Dawes across the street did once the swearing started, but………..”

“No. I mean….did you…..did you call them in first place? The cops. And Child Protection. Did you call? Were you trying to……” He feels like a damned Disney movie saying it. “rescue me?”

 

“Damn it, Temp.” The arm is back to iron, only this time it’s flexing hard under his head as John moves, emotion getting the better of him. “I couldn’t just watch while you….while she…..hurt you, kid. I just couldn’t.”

“So you did call.” Warmth floods him and he can feel himself start to perspire, smell his own scent in the stillness of the room.

“I did. And they told me I was one of many, Temp. Practically the last in line for rescuing you. They heard from a lot of people about you and the other kids. Already had their plan in place. They just wouldn’t tell me when they were going to close the trap.” John’s arm moves again, bending, but staying put, the crook of the older man’s elbow cradling the younger’s head. It feels wonderful, and it’s all he can do to keep from turning and rubbing his cheek against John’s plush skin. “Damn good thing they moved, or I would have had to do something.”

“Like what?” he murmurs, savoring John’s deep growly voice, the, god, can he call that ownership, he hears in it?

“Let’s just say I had my own plan. It was somewhat more…….original……than theirs, but it would have been just as effective. Probably bloodier if your….those people……tried to get in my way, though I was raised not to hit women.”

He has to see John’s eyes for the next question. Has to. “Were you going to paint yourself up and go all Army Ranger and bust me out in the dead of night or what?”

They’re nearly nose to nose, and John’s grin is delicious, white teeth and blue eyes flashing in the moonlight falling over the bed. “You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you? The whole ‘Missing in Action’ bullshit. You got a Chuck Norris thing going on, kiddo?”

“Chuck Norris is a pussy compared to you, John.” His hand can’t resist John’s magnetism anymore, and he brings it up to thump his closed fist over the older man’s heart. “Chuck’s stand-in does all the dirty work for him. You do everything yourself.”

John’s teasing grin changes as they watch each other’s eyes, becoming something much more private, and Temp opens his hand, running his palm over hard pectoral, feeling the solid bump of John’s tautly aroused nipple, hearing the indrawn breath as he runs over it again. It walks into his head that John’s cock is probably equally hard and he bites his lip, feeling his underwear strain against his own raging erection.

He’s never really appreciated the concept of bedroom eyes until this moment, and he stares into those silver blue orbs, feeling the waves of desire rolling off the older man, and he tips his head back, parting his lips, not knowing what else to do to invite John’s touch. He’s never asked anyone to kiss him before, never wanted anyone to do it so badly as he does right now, so badly he considered begging.

But it seems like he won’t have to say a word because John has taken hold of his wrist, is lifting his hand up, bringing it over his own shoulder, drawing him forward.

“John.” He breathes, every hair on end, his nerves tingling, already tasting the older man’s tongue in his mind.

But something’s ringing and John’s stopping, and cursing, and reaching in his pocket. “Fucking hell.” he snarls, sitting up, pushing a button on the phone. 

“Dad? You there? Yeah. Yes. That's why I left the message that way, Dad. I didn't want you to hear from someone else. Calm down and I'll explain, Dad. Just calm down.”

 

A soft moan of loss escapes him as John throws a leg over him and vaults out of their warm nest, arguing with his father in clipped tones. Something about Mandy and where she should be and where she’s willing to be and all he really cares about is John’s warmth and when he can get it back again. Turning on his side, he gazes at the older man’s silhouette against the paleness of the wall. The dark of his shadow resolves itself into the black T-shirt he already knew was there and black cargo pants that fit the man like a second skin. His feet look very heavy too, and he realizes in one quick flash that John is wearing his combat gear. He’d gotten his own little Ranger commando raid; John coming to his rescue, no matter that he’d said he was last in line for that. He can feel the lovesick smile on his own face; John came for him, searched for him, needed him. 

“You’ve got to trust that I know what I’m doing, Dad. I’m on the ground here, you’re not. Yes, sir. I will go and make sure that part is done right now. Email to you within the hour.” John paces to the window and stares out, clearly listening, absorbing, thinking. “I have a way around that. Yes. Absolutely. I think that’ll be far enough away to be safe. Hey, you’re talking to an Army Ranger, Dad, I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Well thanks, old man. I do my best to make you proud. Love you too. Same to Mom. Bye.”

The phone is dropped into one of the many patch pockets in John’s fatigues and he’s ready with a smile when John looks down into his face, one of those big hands coming to rest gently in his soft hair. “You gotta get up, kid. Work now, sleep later.” His backpack is lifted from its place in the corner. “Get dressed. Something dark if you’ve got it.”

He sits up, throwing the sheet off, unzipping the top of his pack, rummaging for fresh boxers, his clean Levis and the dark blue T-shirt he knows is in there. “Where are we going?” Standing, he tugs his underwear down and quickly off, grateful that his need isn’t quite so visible as it was, turning his hip just slightly so that John will see his ass, in case John’s looking. Which John is. He can feel it, those warm blue eyes taking in his nudity, moving along his body like a gentle caress. Now’s not the time; John won’t let himself be distracted, but there will be a better one. He promises himself that. John tried to protect him. John came for him. John’s here. He’s going to make something of that. For both of them. 

“Home.” John growls. “To have a fight with Mouse.”

Pulling up his jeans, he fastens them in one smooth move and flips his folded shirt open to pull it over his head. “Why are we going to fight with her?”

John’s moving around the room, collecting everything of his and leaving it in a small pile on the bed so that he’ll take every piece of evidence that he was even here. He’s about to get lost for a while, he can just feel it.

“Because she’s flying to Paris out of JFK. On the 4:26 am British Airways nonstop to DeGaulle. Dad wants her there. And he’s right, it’s the best place for her right now.”

Not really looking, he’s stuffing everything into his bag, feeling his face get hot again. “Because of me. Me and my endless bullshit.”

“You were acted upon, Temp. It’s not your bullshit. The whole load belongs to those people you lived with. Okay?”

“Okay. If you say so.” Sneakers tied, backpack filled and zipped up, he gets to his feet and shoulders it.

“I say so.” Warm fingertips brush over his cheek and linger to stroke his jaw for a long moment, waiting there until he looks up and smiles. “That’s better. That’s my Templeton.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” John has turned and, instead of taking the two steps to the door, he’s at the window, opening it with one long smooth push upward. “Is this how you got in here John?”

“Couldn’t take the chance of anyone seeing me and remembering me. Just like we’re not taking the chance of waking anyone up now.” John holds out his hand. “You’re the kid that always lands on his feet, right?”

“Damn straight I am.”

 

BA flight 2473 takes off a few minutes late. 4:34 instead of 4:26. But Amanda Marie Smith is on it. Surely pouting in her first class seat, but on it nonetheless. John turns away from the window as soon as the big white bird is in the air and puts a hand on his neck, gripping with gentle force. “Let’s go kid.”

He can feel the tumult that’s still roiling in John’s heart. Mandy fought all right. Mandy fought hard. Mandy fought dirty. Mandy didn’t want to go. She’d accused John of setting all this up with their father to keep her away from Templeton, make her give him up. His denials, and John’s, hadn’t been listened to, not even heard as she rampaged the length of the house, from John’s bedroom to her own, as her brother ordered her to pack her goddamned clothes or he’d send her naked.

“Johnny!” she’d screamed at one point, “you are such a fucking SOLDIER. You make a plan and god forbid one of your little cogs doesn’t turn like it’s supposed to. Then you just fucking hammer on it until it obeys. Or you send it to Paris! You heartless asshole!” The vicious slam of her bedroom door had punctuated the final insult, and John had fisted his hand and punched himself in the forehead once or twice. “Goddamn it, sometimes, that girl…………….”

“gets angry.” He’d finished. “she didn’t mean that. She loves you. That was like the first thing she told me about you. How you taught her all the good shit. How she adores you.”

“She’s certainly hiding it well.” John is stuffing his own clothes into a duffle. All jeans and shorts and T-shirts. Nothing more formal than that. John hasn’t said where they’re going. He hasn’t asked. It doesn’t matter really, as long as they go the same place. 

“Well, why don’t you go get her then.” A long finger taps the face of his birthday watch. First thing he’d done when he got in the house was ask Mandy where it was so he could get it on his wrist. “We’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes. Get her and her shit downstairs, okay?”

“Ok, John. Ok. I’ll get her.”

Hand on the knob, he’d flinched backward at her voice just on the other side of it. “You open that fucking door, John Smith, I will…….”

“It’s me, hon. Templeton.”

It had been flung open then, and his gorgeous girl had thrown herself into his arms.

“I don’t want to go, Temp. You know that right? I’d never run away from this, from you, if it were my choice. It’s Dad. And Johnny.” 

She’d started stroking his hair then, fingers running back through the soft strands, and he’d had to force his memory away from her brother’s big hand, doing exactly the same damn thing. It probably wouldn’t surprise her if he got a hard-on, she might even be hoping for one before she has to go, but he really can’t do that to her. He can’t let her think it’s her when he’ll be fantasizing about John’s mouth, John’s hands, gently stroking, cupping his…...

Taking a firm hold on her slender wrist, he’d removed her small hand from the bulge in his Levi’s. “Mandy, honey. I love you sweetheart, I do.” And surprisingly enough, he’d realized that that was in no way a lie. He does love her, but he’s in love with a different Smith. “but you have to come downstairs now. We’ve got to get in the truck and get going. You can’t miss your plane.”

“I don’t want to fucking go to France, Temp.” And for the first time, he’d seen the power, the ferocity, the same qualities that he saw in John, in sweet little Mandy Mouse. Look out Europe, here she comes.

“Yes you do. It’s the chance of a lifetime, hon.”

“But I’ll miss you so. We never got to really have…….and you’ll be at school when I get home probably. And I wanted to……..try again. You know? Your present?” Thumb stroking her smooth cheek, he’d kissed her then. Really kissed her, for what he was sure was the final time.

“Hey. That was the sweetest gift anyone has ever given me, okay? Ever. And, you know, not to be all romantic, but we’ll always have that.”

“Will you still be around, Temp? If I want to see you when I get home? Will you?”

No matter what he feels or who he feels it for, he could never break this tender little heart. “I’ll be around.”

She’d backed off him then, kissing his ear. Finished her packing.

They’d got her things downstairs and into the truck, tucking her suitcases into the back seat beside his backpack and John’s duffle.

She’d made him sit in the middle and stared out the windshield, ignoring her brother the entire trip. He’d been sure that she’d get on the plane that way, leave John aching. But when he’d come back from a trip to the men’s room, and boarding was being called, he’d seen the panic on her young face and watched her turn and fly to John’s arms, hiding her face in his neck as he held her tight.

Not wanting to interrupt, he’d stopped, leaning against a pillar, watching Mandy murmur, and seeing John rub her back, kiss her cheek and finally let her toes reach the floor again. He’d got there in time for a final quick kiss, and she was gone.

Looking over at John now, as he drives the truck North through Connecticut and into Massachusetts, he can see the tension falling away as they start leaving the population centers behind.

“So you gonna tell me where we’re going now?” 

John takes a long sip of his coffee, then pushes the atlas across the seat. “Flip it open, kiddo. The corner’s folded.”

“Maine?”

“Yup. Our beach house. It’s been in my mother’s family since the turn of the century. Nothing and no one is going to get to us there.”

 

“You’re shitting me. There’s no such place as Ducktrap, Maine.”

They’ve been in the truck for nine solid hours, one stop for sub sandwiches and another for gas and the toilet. He wants out, but fucking Ducktrap, Maine?

“There is a place called Ducktrap, Maine, because you’re sitting in the middle of it.” John shuts off the ignition and opens the door and he scrambles out his door quick to get around and catch John stretching. It goes from head to toe. He’d caught only the tail of it when they stopped for food; and made sure to get the whole show at the gas station. It’s phenomenal; John’s gorgeous, and he’s in love. 

He pastes an innocent expression on when John turns around and catches him there, staring. “C’mon kid. It’s twenty miles yet to the house, but if we want to eat, we need to stock up here.”

“Here?” There are a total of four buildings in sight, and one of them is all boards.

John is striding up the walk to the nearest one, a big white building with ‘Watts Dry Goods’ painted on the sign. “Yeah, here. C’mon. Move your ass, Temp. I want a beer and a swim and a nap. Soon.”

He hurries, sliding through the door right before John’s heft fills the frame, and going back in time about fifty years. The place is old, creaky, but the floor is scrupulously clean, the merchandise is tidy, and they have Mike’s Hard Lemonade, so he must not be in the Twilight Zone.

“Well, I’m damned!” The speaker is an old man in faded khakis and a once-red apron. He’s standing by a brass cash register that must weight eight hundred pounds with a look on his face like he’s seen a ghost. “Johnny!” The counter stops his forward motion and he maneuvers around carefully, cane in hand, until he can stand in front of John, looking up. His hand goes out to shake, but he looks like if he could reach, he’d be more comfortable ruffling John’s hair.

“Charlie. How the hell are you?” John’s shaking the old man’s hand gently, patting a frail shoulder with the other.

“I’m well. Well enough, I s’pose. What’s it been, son? Ten years? Eleven? You’d just come back from the Gulf, I think.”

John is smiling. “Good memory. I had three weeks leave before I shipped out again.”

“Aw hell, I can remember ten years ago. Just not m’breakfast. Mandy was just a little mite in a sundress, if I recall. Always wanting you to pick her up and carry her. She with you?”

“No. She’s on vacation with Mom and Dad this summer.”

“What brings you up here then? And who’s this?”

John shoots him a glance and he gives Charlie a grin. “This is Templeton. He’s a buddy. We came up to drink and swim and fish and sit in the sun.”

“You don’t mind my saying it, you could use it, Johnny boy. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t mind you saying it, Charlie. Especially not when it’s true. So go sit back down behind the counter and we’ll start loading it up.”

 

The road from Ducktrap out to the house is mostly ruts, and he’s damned glad that John’s truck has one of those little straps for him to hold onto. It helps with the rocking back and forth.

“How long since anyone’s actually driven on this……trail, John? The turn of the century?”

John’s laugh is deep and rich as he steers his way through another good-sized dip. “I haven’t been here in ten years. Too much shit going on. Mom and Dad usually come up every summer for at least a week, but I can’t say if they did last year. Don’t worry. However the road looks, the house will be fine. It’s been through a lot. Shit, there’s the turn.”

It’s another track, chained off, marked private property. “It looks like ‘Friday the 13th’ or some shit, John. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Get out and open it up.”

Out in the crisp, quiet air, he unhooks the chain and crosses over, waiting for John to drive through. A flash of something catches his eye and, turning fully, he see the Atlantic in all her glory, waves crashing against a rocky point, and just the barest thread of the beach.

“Nice, isn’t it?” John calls out the open window, grinning at him. “Hook that back up and get in. Two more minutes and we’ll be out in those waves, kiddo. How’s that sound?”

 

The ocean is the most delicious thing he’s ever felt. Salty and chilled and powerful. Gathering him up like a huge hand and tossing him around, then letting him lie back and float, sun on his belly and the water whispering in his ears.

John had been as good as his word. Parked the truck in the scrubbed patch of dirt in front of the house, gone around the side to flip on the power, unlocked the door, handed him his pack and shoved him toward the bathroom. “Go get your suit on and come on down the path.”

He’d dropped his stuff, ditched his clothes and got the trunks on in record time. The path was easy to find and the beach was just………..there. Right fucking there. Warm white sand. A pile of towels. John in his own suit, the bright orange one that makes him look so dark and delicious, standing in the water, surf licking at his hard brown thighs. “ready kid?”

“Ready.”

John had beckoned him forward and they’d turned and dove, cleaving the water at the same moment. They’d gone out past the breakers first, John leading, getting there first by virtue of those long, powerful arms and legs. They’d done some laps out there, stretching their tight muscles, even going so far as to race, pulling through the water shoulder to shoulder. 

Neither of them were quite used to the chill though and they’d moved closer to shore where the water was shallower, warmer. Floating, riding the breakers, pure relaxing. A wave grabs him and rolls him down, scraping him along the bottom and John is there, catching his hand, pulling him to the surface, rubbing his back as he coughs. “you trying to drown yourself, kid?”

“No.” A last cough clears his airway of salt and he spits the ocean back into itself. “I think I kinda fell asleep a little.”

“Out you get then. Waves can do that to you. Lull you out. Then the old girl takes you. And I’m not losing you, okay?”  
“I’d rather you didn’t myself.”

The towels are warm from the sun, and they feel wonderful on his chilled body, especially when John grabs the thick cotton and dries his back, rubbing hard but gently, warming him through. He just stands, absorbing the tenderness, swaying a little.

“Okay.” John growls. “You’re toast, boy.”

He didn’t mean to get quite this relaxed, but he hardly slept last night and it’s been a couple of really hard days and John’s arm is warm around him and the next thing he knows they’re back up by the house and John is tossing towels over the edge of a small enclosure and pulling him inside. 

The water that hits his back is warm and fresh and John parks him under the bulk of the spray and sluices the flow over his hair and down his back.

“Why are we showering when we just got out of the water?” It might make more sense if he weren’t so damned tired, but his brain just doesn’t have what it takes right now.

“The salt.” John is smiling down at him, hands gentle on his chest and belly, washing the sea off. “You’ll look like a kippered herring by sundown if you don’t clean up.”

Everything’s fine until John dips a finger into his shorts, unties his drawstring, and pushes the cold wet of his trunks down and off. He moans, low and soft, catching the hand that’s dipping down to brush over his ass and grabbing hard at the one on his hip. The one that’s holding him so steady, the one with the thumb that’s drawing small circles right at the edge of his rough, wiry hair. “John. What’re you……what…I…”

“Hush, Temp.” is whispered huskily into his hair as those hands break free of his grip and start to move over him again. “just let me, huh?”

He might be nodding. Can’t really tell. All he knows is he’s hard as a rock and John must know it too. John’s shoulder is a wonderfully safe place to rest his head, and when he manages to his eyes it’s to find that John’s trunks are gone too and they’re naked together in the warm water.

 

“Turn around.” John’s lips are at his ear and he turns into the comforting rumble of that voice, feeling the breeze ruffle through his wet hair and the sun dapple down on their bodies through the trees. “Relax. Just relax back into me.”

The warm arm around his waist and the solid chest behind him make that a very easy instruction to follow, and he obeys, laying his head back onto John’s broad shoulder, the water beating on his chest, every now and then sparking a nipple. 

John’s free hand starts its lazy journey at his forehead, thumb stroking gently across above his eyebrows. “Relax Templeton.” Lips brush over his neck, then fasten on his pulse, sucking sweetly for a long moment. “Just feel, kid. Feel my hands on your body.”

His nose is gently tweaked between John’s thumb and forefinger, and he shys away, smiling like a fool, feeling John’s laughter where their skins are pressed together. Heat replaces every other thing when that thumb rubs across his mouth, the rough pad dragging over his smooth lips, pressing tenderly on the lower and then slipping in for him to suck for the barest second.

He voices another soft moan when his treat is taken away and feels John’s hand slide down, circling his throat, savoring the vibrations. This moan is louder as his brain brings back the feeling of being pinned under the broad weight of John’s body, his throat held in this same grip. He can feel John shaking, the arm around him tightening, drawing him in, and then, oh, and then, John’s thick cock is nudging hotly at his lower back, the velvet smooth head sliding up his wet skin.

“J,,,john.” He gasps, reaching back to the hard curve of the older man’s hip, unable to control himself, wanting, he doesn’t even know what, everything there is.

“Shhhh. God Temp! Shhh.” The hand on his throat squeezes a tiny fraction. “Jesus, sweetheart, say my name like that again and I’ll be finished.”

“I…I can’t…help….” A wail takes over his ability to vocalize as John’s hand slides down his flat midriff, fingers swirling through wet hair, and grips his cock firmly.

“Sensitive as hell and noisy too.” A warm tongue laps the trail of moisture off his neck. “Beautiful.” Teeth nibble at the sensitive skin just under his ear. “Mine.” 

Those strong fingers flex around his throbbing shaft and every nerve just lights up. “Lean back.” Warm, wet skin slides again and John groans. “That’s right. I’ve got you sweetheart.” John voice is a deep, sexy grumble as he begins to stroke, balls to tip and back again, hand turning, slow and devious, searching for all the little things that no one else has ever discovered about him. The things he’s never offered another human soul.

And John finds them, every secret his body has. Bares them. Takes them in and keeps them safe. 

Follows those secrets; palming the sleek head firmly; drawing back to let one finger flick up the heart shape on the underside, over and over. 

He’s at the edge, biting down on his lip, utterly unable to stifle his needy cries, hands clutching at John’s forearm, his body melting back into the older man’s frame.

His climax is right there, right out there, and he needs, he just needs…

John moves, kissing his neck, those gentle fingers brushing his rigid flesh, making a ring at the crown, hand drawing back and down, pushing the throbbing head of his boy’s cock through the tight circle, again, again, again.

“Come sweetheart.” John growls, right in the soft cup of his ear. “Come. Be mine.” Orgasm tears through him, plundering every nerve, stealing his breath, pulling deep, hot cries from his throat as semen jets from his body, coating John’s hand, spattering down onto his own thighs. It goes on and on, harder than ever before, his body shaking. He realizes he’s going to do it only a second before he passes out, collapsing, knowing he’s safe in John’s embrace, the world gone too bright to look at.

 

A cool breeze wafting over his bare shoulder brings him up from the bottom, pushing him slowly to the surface, and he rolls, tugging the sheet and the woven cotton blanket higher over his body, working his head back down into the softness of the feather pillow. Wait. What?

He’s dry. Warm. Comfortable. Hand fisted in the covers, he sits up fast and looks around at the knotted boards of the sunny bedroom he left his backpack in. Ooh, too fast. Little points of gray are flashing in his vision and his heart is pounding. How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is John’s voice in his ear, John whispering to him while he…while they…..in the shower. Heart pounding again, he pushes the covers down enough to see. Yup. Naked. Absolutely bare-ass.

Scrubbing his bare chest with his hands, he watches the tree outside the window throw its shadow on the wall and listens to the crash of the ocean through the screen, the sound of the big breakers loud and inviting. But that’s wrong. If the window faces the ocean, which he knows it does, then he lost something somewhere. Like ten or twelve hours of something. Stretching to his left, kicking the covers down, he grabs for his watch from the bedside table.

Well, fuck. Tag Heuer says it’s 10:22 am. And accuracy is one of their strong points, so… A yawn attacks him and he lets it out, tipping his head to run his fingers over his scalp, rubbing and pulling, kneading his brain into motion. Get vertical first, pee second, and last but never least, find John. 

His last pair of clean underwear in hand, he pads naked to the bathroom, inspecting himself in the mirror while he lets his stream go. He’s got quite the pair of bruises. John’s thumbprint on the left side of his throat; and, dark and sexy on the other side, what can only be described as a love-suck. Can’t be a love-bite because there weren’t any teeth in that one; his memory is clear on that. Just John’s lips, tugging on his pulse. Chills race up his spine and he lifts a finger to stroke the mark, tracing the shape of the older man’s mouth.

John claimed him. That’s what this is. It was ownership he heard; possession he felt when John made him come. Blue eyes widen at him in the mirror. John made him come. 

Looking down at his lean frame, he notices there are a few bruises there too. Fingermarks on his hipbone where John held him. While John stroked him and pleased him. While John made love to him. As schoolgirl as that sounds, he can feel himself blushing with the thought, and when he looks up he catches himself in the mirror, eyes bright, cheeks pink, and he blushes harder. He’s got it bad. Worse than he knew. John touched; and he fell apart.

But, shit, what happened after that? After he went down for the count? Left John standing there is what. That’s not exactly making love. Not that he would really know, because he’s never, no one ever took him over…….. “stop it.” His own voice is loud in the stillness. “just go find him, stupid.” 

It’s not a sight for the faint of heart. But then, he’s pretty sure his heart’s going to jump every time this man comes into view. For the rest of his goddamned life. John’s out on the back porch. If he’d looked out the window when he got up, he’d have been able to stare from right there.

At one point, John was reading. The book is there, splayed on its pages beside the bucket of ice and beer. But he must have gotten bored, or sleepy, or maybe he’s just trying to kill unsuspecting houseguests with his gorgeousness, because he’s tipped back in the lounge chair, eyes closed, that long arm bent under his head again, drinking in the sun. Which is shining down on every tanned, muscled inch of him. He’s got those damned orange trunks on again too. 

Hand tight around the porch railing, he can feel himself reacting. John owes him new underwear. Every pair he’s got is going to be stretched out of shape.

Feet light on the cool boards, he’s right beside the book, ready to reach out and touch, when John opens his eyes. Smiles at him like he were Christmas morning. 

“Well look who’s up. I thought you were going to sleep the clock around, sweetheart.”

 

“Almost did, didn’t I?” He paused when John smiled at him, pinned by the heat, and he waits a beat, wanting the slope of John’s shoulder, the silky skin at the bend of a powerful arm. Holding the older man’s gaze, he lets his hand go where it wants, one fingertip trailing over the muscular line of a bicep, stroking tenderly. John’s body is delicious, all that hardness covered by such softness. That makes him think of the slide of John’s cock against his ass while they were entwined in the shower last night, and all of the sudden his blood doesn’t know which way to turn because his face is catching fire and his erection is trying to fight its way out of his briefs.

And John’s still watching him, smile in place. There’s desire in those eyes, appreciation, but there’s need there too. Welcoming, that’s what John needs. Giving in to his own desire, he lets that one fingertip turn into four and then be replaced with his palm, caressing down a long arm until he can fit his hand into John’s, hold it gently, lift it to his mouth.

When his lips press gently against a scarred knuckle, John sighs. When he turns that big hand and starts in on those long elegant fingers, kissing the tips gently, tongue slipping out to taste, John starts to murmur. It’s not until he fastens his lips on the bracelets of fortune and slowly draws John’s pulse into his mouth that the grumble comes back. The noise that lifts the hair on his neck. The noise that draws him closer, makes him press his open mouth into John’s palm…

“You are so beautiful Templeton.” The world spins for a moment, like when the wave took him down, but John’s hand is there again, catching hold as the older man pulls him around and down, crossways into his lap, holding him tight, bare skin on bare skin, mouth hovering, all that power barely leashed. “I haven’t kissed you yet, kid. Not the way I want to kiss you anyway. Not the way I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks now.” Reverent fingertips are caressing his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the hard line of his jaw. “Can I sweetheart?” 

How long has he wanted this? Not just the weeks he’s known John. It seems like years, his whole life maybe, that he’s waited for someone to want him, to need him this much. And, God, for John to ask? To care about what he wants. For John to respect him, to actually treat him like an equal. For a minute he’s so full of feelings that he has to clutch John close or explode. No wonder he’s so damned in love with the gorgeous hunk. He’s not an object to this man; he never will be. He’s a partner. And how fucking incredible is that?

Incredible enough that he surges up, pulling on the hand that’s touching his face, coaxing until John wraps it around his neck, thumb teasing at the bruise he left there. Letting the sensation run through his body, he takes the initiative, flexing upward, planting the most serious kiss he’s ever given right on those soft, full lips.

The snap of pleasure as their lips meet thunders through them both. The throaty sound of passion it draws from John shoots a thrill right through his vitals and he hears himself answer, straight from his libido, without a stop at his brain; a silky, needy little moan. Which John devours, deepening the kiss, flicking his tongue in, changing the angle, the pressure, making this an evolution, a learning experience, the true beginning of their intimate relationship.

Nothing’s out of bounds here, nothing they do together can ever be wrong, so he lets his own desires loose, hand gently running through his lover’s hair, chasing John’s tongue, sucking gently when he catches it, pulling back to bite lovingly at those vulnerable lips, then soothing the sting with small, healing kisses. The heat their erotic play is causing finally forces their mouths apart for a few gulps of cool air, and he presses his cheek to John’s working throat, wanting to feel his lover’s heart pound, wanting to savor John’s arousal.

It’s his, this passion. All his. He caused the tremors in this strong body. And before he knows it he’s biting John’s throat, leaving his own mark while John cries out at the sensation, the praise in his voice unmistakable.

 

The hand on his neck tightens, then relaxes, then begins to meander down his body, teasing at shivery spots. The soft skin under his collarbone, the plump shape of his nipple, and, what seems to be a very arousing spot to John, the line of hair that leads down from his navel. He bites harder in response, moaning in his throat when John ventures around and into his underwear, squeezing his ass. Hard. He’s tugged upright then, the lock he has on John’s neck broken for the moment, his hands clutching at strong shoulders as the older man leans back farther in the chair, taking them down nearly to horizontal. 

Both big hands dive under soft cotton and grip the firm cheeks of his ass; a hard knee nudging his leg over at the same moment. The yelp he voices into the warm summer air as he’s pulled to straddling, his cock lining up hard to John’s through the thin material of his briefs and John’s swimsuit, makes John laugh. It’s a beautiful, free sound and he vows to make that happen as many times as he can in this whole delicious process. Gorgeous John. His John.

“Are we going to kiss more?” he breathes, bending close to lick along the line of his lover’s collarbone, tasting John’s morning swim in the hollows.

“Mmm. You like to kiss, sweetheart? You can have as many as you want.” And John obliges, tongue thrusting gently. It’s getting kind of hard to concentrate on that though. It’s getting kind of hard to remember to breathe. John’s hands are spreading his cheeks; the tip of John’s middle finger rubbing down his crease, tickling through the tiny hairs, finding the silky bud, stroking gently around his virgin rose.

“John! John…….please…….”

“Look at me Temp.”

Bracing himself up on the hard plane of John’s chest, he stares down into those silver blue pools.

“Does that feel good, my love?” The finger is pressing, circling.

“You know……it feels...” There’s not a word in his vocabulary for how it feels, but it doesn’t seem to matter. John knows. The pressure is beyond delicious and a soft little ‘oh’ escapes him, hands clutching at John’s chest as his tight muscle gives way before the pad of John’s finger.

Like everything else about him, that finger is big. It hurts a little, just a tiny sting, but the way his man is petting his ass, he doesn’t feel the burn for long, just an unbearable desire.

He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice; it’s so low and quavery. “do it. slide it into me. please.”

John’s groan rumbles up through both their bodies. “No. No, love. Don’t do that, don’t push. You’re so tight. I don’t want to hurt you.” Those eyes are beckoning him, concern in their depths, and he bends to kiss John’s mouth, slow and sweet, moaning as he loses the penetration.

“Tonight.” The vow is there in that deep voice when the kiss breaks. “Tonight. In my bed. Give you everything, sweet boy.”

“Promise?”

“Try and stop me.” Everything in him rises to the challenge in that and he rubs himself down into John’s groin. “Shit. Christ, you’re a goddamned flirt.” A big hand is pressing up on his hipbone, and the other is yanking faded cotton down his thighs. “Get these damned things off. Want to touch you.”

 

The briefs get stuck on his left foot, and John nearly falls apart laughing as he kicks impatiently, finally sending the stupid things flying over the railing and into the grass. He puts a stop to that in a heartbeat, moving back up to settle down on the older man, soft balls resting on the smooth skin of John’s belly, his cock upright between them, ready, warm and flushed with blood.

John’s reaching, and he catches that thick wrist before the older man can reach his goal.

“Not unless I get to touch you too, this time.”

His lover’s grin is hot and teasing as he bucks his hips up and reaches under, jerking his damp trunks down, leaning up straight, pressing their bodies together excitingly as he gets them down to his ankles and off. “Not as cute as you..” John growls, laying back “but…”

“Not as cute as me? Are you serious? You’re a fucking knockout.” Pushing himself up and back, they both stop breathing as the hard length of John’s cock strokes its way through his groin. Hot shaft and thick head, rubbing against his ass, his balls, then sliding up the underside of his own erection, smooth skin on smooth skin. 

Both of those big hands are tight on his lightly furred thighs now, strong fingers squeezing gently as John arches, needing the contact, growling in his throat. There’s never going to be a better opportunity.

It’s impressive, that thick length. Stiff and red and…big. Very big. Fills his hand. Make that hands. One at the base, the other at the head, worshipping.

He can feel the blood filling in, John growing harder at the attention, see the crown darkening as the older man’s arousal intensifies. He keeps expecting John to make a move, catch his hands, take control. But it doesn’t happen. The only movement of John’s hands is to caress the warm thighs draped over him.

A wild feeling this; this strong man making himself vulnerable, giving himself over into his inexperienced hands. It’s trust and love and a hundred other things he can’t put a name to, and he’s going to make sure that all that’s not wasted. That he’s worthy of what he’s being given.

He lets go, staring down, just watching how proudly the shaft springs back up, how it rises toward John’s belly. Gently, with great care, he runs his fingertips over the length, caressing every inch of silky skin. When John is gasping, he slowly concentrates his touch on the ridge where the head begins, feeling John begin to strain, hearing the warm growls of anticipation.

A bead of moisture is rising in response to the attention. As he watches, it trembles in the slit and spills, tracing down. Catching it with the pad of his thumb, he brings it to his mouth to taste, inhaling over it, the pure musk of the heavy fluid hitting him like a punch in the nose, rocking him back, dizzying him.

More of that; he needs more of that taste; that smell. Wrapping one hand around the shaft just under the head, he starts a slow, rhythmic stroke, coaxing the drops to a slow trickle, using his thumb to rub the moisture all over the broad smooth tip, pausing now and then to lick his thumb clean, keeping the delicious flavor of his lover on his tongue. A fierce desire to just take all that beauty into his mouth surges through him, and he follows it, sliding the head past his lips, pushing his tongue downward along the vein.

The hands on his thighs have turned to iron and he can feel John panting, shaking as he makes his first attempt at pleasing him. It’s awkward for all of a second, trying to get the angle and the rhythm, and then everything falls into place, just like everything seems to between them, and excitement soars through him. Making love to John this time, giving the pleasure; it’s magic.

His heart and mind are filled with sensations, emotions colliding and he can’t catch a one as John groans, arching, the smooth flesh in his hand growing impossibly hard, the thick head between his lips surging, flaming with heat. A big hand flies to his hair, urging him up, off. That’s not going to happen. He knows what the finish of this is, and he wants it, grabbing John’s wrist with his free hand and holding tight, sucking for all he’s worth.

The first spurt fills his mouth and they groan in unison. Then the flow is uncontrolled, a sweet, salty, heavy flood, filling his senses, John jerking with every jet. His throat’s not skilled enough to take it all, not yet, but he does his best, and John’s not complaining. Not at all. John’s blissed out. 

It’s a beautiful sight. John’s face. Handsome. Open. Nothing hidden. Nothing strained or controlled. Body equally beautiful. Even more open. Totally relaxed. All tension gone. Released. He did that. He gave John that.

 

Pulling his mouth up and off the softening length, he slips down to tongue up the warm line of John’s semen that got away, and gasps against smooth flesh when John comes alive beneath him. Grabbing for his shoulders; pulling him up that hard, long frame. Skins warm and slippery as they rub, body hair brushing, sweat from the hot sun and the hotter connection they’ve forged mixing in the pool of their navels.

Then they’re face to face and John’s arms are iron around him, holding them tight together. Full length. Only his toes don’t quite reach John’s instep unless he points his foot and tickles. Just a little.

“Flirt.” Rumbles through their bodies, and John kisses his nose, then his chin, and then their mouths meet. Gentle and slow, giving and taking; John’s tongue exploring his mouth. Heat surges through him, pinkening his cheeks and driving his cock wild where it’s pressed to the inside curve of John’s hipbone, when he realizes that his lover is chasing the taste of his own climax, savoring the tang combined with the sweet taste of his lips.

It makes him want to crawl inside his man, jolt every sensitive nerve, lick every inch of his body. Later, maybe. Right now he can only press closer, and moan, and welcome the attention. When he’s finally released, dazzled and drunk from John’s kisses, he feels one big hand leave his ass and maneuver between them to find his still-throbbing erection, wrapping it gently, tugging.

The feeling is so damned good, his cock squeezed tight in John’s hand, pressed tighter yet between their bodies, that the tugging doesn’t register as a request until John whispers in his ear, “come up here sweetheart, and let me have this.”

Body responding to the heat and tenderness in John’s voice, he pushes up, straddling, a knee planted in the towel on either side of John’s ribs as the older man guides him, one hand still perfect on his shaft, the other gently stroking the short hair where his thigh leads to the curve of his ass.

Then he sees where this is going and stops their motion, pulling back. “I can’t.”

John’s hands are gentle, stroking, soothing, his gaze warm. “You can. You wanted me in your mouth, sweetheart. You can return the favor, can’t you?” He shouldn’t have gotten so lost in those eyes, John’s been moving him just a bit with every word, and how his lover has him right where he wants him, right where he can…

“Jesus! John! Ungh!” As incredible as it was the first time, with the hands, John’s mouth is heaven. Wet, warm heaven. Both hands up now, the older man is caressing his hipbones, encouraging him farther in, wanting him to…how can he be willing to…but that is what he wants…he’s giving the rhythm, encouraging it.

It’s what his body wants. Intensely what his body wants. Of course it’s what his body wants. To thrust into tight warmth. Warmth that throbs and… “god John! Oh god!” …draws on his shaft. Hands pull him forward harder, cupping the cheeks of his ass now, and instinct wins the battle. Clutching the wooden lattices of the chair over John’s head, he lets himself have the stroke, enjoy it, feeling John’s approval thrum around him, then echo through their bodies like a drumbeat. It’s incredible. It’s everything. Drive in. Pull out. Over and over and over.

Unbidden one of Peggy’s stupid little stitched homilies comes back to him; ‘We Learn By Doing’. Boy do we ever! He’s learning volumes doing, being done, absorbing the lessons through every inch of his skin.

The next second he’s gone, thoughts blown apart, mind reeling as he shoots, senses tumbling when his lover’s throat tightens, the suction pulling him right out of himself, right into John. Falling forward, hips twitching in a final exhausted jerk, his forehead meets his clenched hands and the gratified sob that escapes him is the last thing he hears for a while.

The booming crash of a wave gets him going again. Or maybe it’s John’s fingers, playing idly over his stomach.

“Well look who’s up.” John murmurs, gently making him let go the chair, shifting their bodies so that they’re sitting up again, his legs draped over John’s thighs, his still drowsy head resting in the curve of John’s solid neck. “Good morning again, sweetheart.”

Too fuzzy for words he moves his head a fraction and kisses John’s throat, hoping that gets the message across. It must, because strong arms cuddle him closer, into a warm hug, and John’s hand is pulling gently through his hair. “my boy.”

He can’t leave that unanswered. Not for the world. “mmmm. Your boy.”

He feels the soft kiss on his forehead, silent recognition of his vow. When John speaks again, the teasing notes that he loves are back. “Does my boy want a shower? Or would my boy like to get tossed into the ocean to clean up?”

Pushing himself off that warm solid chest isn’t really his first choice, but the sparkle in those eyes is worth it as he sits up straight, stretching from his flexing toes against the boards of the deck to the tips of his fingers, held high above their heads. “Ocean sounds good.” Leaning back in for a kiss, he gets his feet under him for the quick getaway and whispers. “race you.”

 

He’d won, but not by much, John’s hand catching him sharply on the ass as he ran by and dove into an onrushing wave. They had washed, in between the pushing and the dunking and the riding of the chilly swells.

Washed again in the outdoor shower, then out and into the house to pull on some clean clothes. John getting another good laugh when he had to go out and search the grass for those damned briefs. He’d come back out of the bedroom to a beer and two roast beef sandwiches, and the suggestion that he could look in the closet for some boots that might fit him and they could hike the limits of the property this afternoon, if he wanted. There was such warmth and pride of ownership in John’s eyes that he’d agreed immediately, and the next six hours had been spent climbing and descending, ducking branches and jumping small rushing streams, following his man into the heart of the wilderness he knew so well.

He’d felt the majesty of it himself, his city boy’s senses trembling just a bit, when John took him up a path to the edge of the bluff overlooking it all. “There it is. Joe Whitfield’s pride.” John took a long pull from the water they’d brought and handed it over for him to drink.

“Who's Joe Whitfield?”

“He was my mother’s grandfather. A rough little Irishman with more guts than brains is the way my Grandpa Joe always described him. Started in the streets, selling rags. Made a little money, turned it into more, fought and scratched and yanked his way into respectability. Built himself a mansion in the city and a hideaway up here. Never could remember to button his vest and wore his cavalry boots everywhere. He also liked a good cigar. My mother adored him.”

“Your mom doesn’t seem like…”

“Like what? Like she’d care for someone who wasn’t perfect? She’s ok, my mom.”

“Does she know you’re gay?”

“Not a clue. I hope. No one knows. I hide in plain sight, Temp. Always have. You?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Anyone know about you?”

He’d suddenly been very interested in his hands, and said, “They couldn’t. I never was. Never had any… anything about a guy, or with a guy, or anything.” He’d looked up quick, chewing his knuckle. “Til you. Stop grinning at me like that.”

“Like what?” his man had growled, moving in.

“Like I’m a full beer.” Hand on John’s chest, he’d backed into a sun warmed rock and braced.

“You will never be anything as common as a beer, Temp. Champagne. Johnny Walker Blue label maybe.” Hard fingers had touched something in his wrist then, making his elbow give with a little spasm and he’d been ironed out between John’s lean body and the warm rock, kissed within an inch of his life.

Only when he’d given everything, was clinging to his man’s hard shoulders, mouth plundered, had John eased up, caressed his face, stroked his hair. “Beautiful boy. C’mon and let’s go down. You need your dinner. Then we’ll move your stuff into my room before bed.”

 

That had been hours ago. Before he’d gathered his scattered clothes off the chair in his room and folded them, tucked them in the drawers next to John’s. Before he’d dropped his toothbrush into the holder and set his small collection of personal stuff on the counter in John’s bathroom. Before his feather pillow had been tossed up against the headboard, landing perfectly on top of John’s current book. Before the whole roasted fish and huge salads they’d had for dinner. Before they’d washed the dishes together, the apron joke making a re-appearance in their teasing, playing verbal tag. Before they’d wound up here, snuggled on the living room sofa in the dark, windows open to the warm summer night, kissing, touching, exploring.

His t-shirt is whisked over his head and dropped to the floor, John moving back in to kiss his shoulder, his neck, his chest, pausing to sponge over his nipple with a wet tongue, making him jump, drawing a little yelp of pleasure. He’s a little nervy; John’s earlier promise rattling around in his head. He wants to be in John’s bed, wants to feel everything. But the cock is big and the entrance is small, and his muscles jump instinctively every time he considers the difference. Then John is back, kissing him again, taking his hand, flattening it, pulling it up under his own shirt, smooth skin, light chest hair, strong heart beating under his palm, and all he can think about is taking off all his clothes and getting as close as possible to this man.

Teeth nibble gently at his earlobe. “What’s bothering you, Temp?” 

“Nothing. Kiss me.” The gentle press of lips to his cheekbone is John giving in to the request, but not being put off. At all.

“You’re worried about what we talked about this morning, aren’t you? About making love? Me inside you?”

“No.” And he’s not. John’s cock inside him is a fine idea. What it is is... “About you getting inside me. I’ve never seen anything this big.” He squeezes gently at the lump in John’s cargo shorts while his lover growls with pleasure. “And I don’t see how you’re going to fit this in there. I want you to. I just…”

“You’re nervous.” John is touching, every small pleasure point he’s discovered in the last two days it feels like. “It’s not a crime, kid. It’s fine. We never have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever.”

“I do want to. I want to a lot. When you touched me there... And in the shower, when I could feel you against my ass…” John’s grumble has deepened to a sensual, hungry noise and the pressure in his hand makes him realize that he still has ahold of John’s erection, and his words are only making the difference larger and larger. “What d’you do anyway? How do you..?”

“Get you ready? There are lots of ways. But for you? For my boy, who loves to be touched?” A warm hand slides up the back of his thigh, under his shorts, reaching for the prize. “I’ll spread slick all over your soft bud and ease my finger in.” The lips at his ear pause to let a warm tongue slip around the shell. “And you’ll whimper and cling to me while I stroke you. When I find your prostate you’ll yell, and you’ll want me so badly I can get two fingers in, and…”

“I am nervous.” The admission is a little breathless from the brushing of John’s finger. “but I want that. I want you.”

“You’ll love it. I’ll make sure of it.”

The way to the bedroom is barely lit by the scattery moonlight coming in the hall window, but when John reaches for the light switch, he grabs. “Can we keep it like this?” The brightness of this morning was good, but the warm envelope of darkness they’ve been fooling around in for the last couple hours is better. Closer. You gotta use your hands when you can’t see.

Arm pulling, wrapping him close, John answers softly, “If you like. Though I want to see your face when you take me home, Temp. Want to see you come.”

“There’s enough moon for that.” The stubbled chin beneath his lips thrums softly with John’s affirmation, and they crash together in the doorway, wrestling one another to the cool expanse of John’s bed.

 

John wins. And he’s pinned. But those big hands are stripping him, shorts gone, briefs gone, a warm circle rubbed into his lower belly before John rolls to his hip and strips down. Then skin. Blanketed in hot, plush skin. John’s hard thigh between his, stirring slow and exciting while his lover stares down at him, their cocks solid and smooth together.

“Say yes, beautiful boy. Tell me you want this.”

God. How does John always do this? He’s blushing again, cheeks hot with desire, with the pleasure of being pursued by this man. A man who could have anyone he wanted. “Yes, John.” The kiss they share is pure harmony, both of them trying to give all they can.

John breaks it, moving off, stretching for the nightstand, body on display, scars inconsequential against the muscled beauty of his frame. The drawer is in a patch of darkness, so he can’t see what’s coming out of there until John slides back to his side and sets two containers carefully on his belly.

“Two?”

“Two. I’m going to put a little of each on your belly, and you’re going to tell me which one.”

“What are they?”

Tube in hand, John says, “this is KY. Its gel.” The cool line of it John squeezes onto his skin is a tiny shock. The warm thumb that rubs it around is nothing but pleasure. That smooth movement at his hole would be delicious.

The tube is tossed to the bed and the soft snap of a lid opens his eyes. “This is massage oil. Organic. Nothing chemical. Smells good, too. Vanilla.” The warm drops fall beside his navel, pooling there, and again, John spreads it with his thumb, caressing gently. The oil is slipperier, thinner, he can feel John’s skin through it so much more… “this.”

“This.” John bends to kiss him, tilting the bottle again, tiny droplets pattering over his cock and balls, his thighs, his already wet belly. Then his lover’s hand is spreading the oil, stroking, rubbing the slick stuff over every inch of him. He can’t control his cry against John’s lips when that big hand gathers up his cock and coats it in oil.

“That’s my boy.” John is rolling again, onto his back, urging him up on top, face to face. “Spread your legs, Temp. One on either side, like you were in the chair.” Already complying, he can feel his own shivers of delight as his oiled cock slides against the older man’s flat stomach muscles. “Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?” John teases, hand reaching for the fallen bottle. “Just wait a second. It gets better.”

“Oh shit.” No lie there. Lip bitten, he lets his eyes fall shut so he can focus on the warm oil flowing down from the bottle perched at his tailbone, filling his crack, being captured by John’s finger and spread over his trembling bud. 

“Going inside you now, Temp. That all right?”

“Yes, God yes, John. Please.” There’s a tiny little yelp from his throat at the end of that. John’s finger pushing through the tight ring. 

John’s voice is deep, strained with want. “So soft, sweetheart. So tender and tight. Can’t wait to bury my cock right here.” The finger surges deeper, making him gasp with a mixture of pleasure and surprise. The thought of John’s cock moving, just like that, pulls a hungry moan out of him, and he bends lower, tipping his ass up instinctively to be mounted.

“That’s my boy.” John’s finger is gliding out, gathering oil, pressing back in, again and again. Every smooth push through the ring is easier, more pleasurable. John’s finger is moving deeper with each thrust, opening him up, easing the way. He was so right about the oil, he can feel every stroke against the smooth muscles inside him. It’s incredible, being touched so lovingly, and he lifts his head to give John a long, wet kiss.

Which stops with a sob when that long finger searches deeper yet; and finds; and rubs. Every nerve reacts and he feels his body reverberate with ecstasy, filling his head with clouds.

“Well you didn’t yell,” John breathes against his mouth, “but the way you’re shivering and moaning is even more beautiful. That’s your prostate, love.” And the fingertip begins to circle gently, throwing sparks into his blood, making his body beg for the finish.

“Can I give you two now?”

His fevered nod has John laughing softly, slipping his finger out, adding oil, sliding the pair in, widening them a touch. “Still feel good, Temp?”

A high little whine is the only answer he has. It feels incredible, what John’s doing. The stretching is a little weird feeling, but his body is so eager for it he can hardly stand the waiting. John needs to…

“You are so sweet.” John’s withdrawing, spilling more oil on his hand, then sliding back in. Three this time; working solid and hot in his ass. “You want everything I can give you, don’t you love? Want me inside, Temp? You ready?”

The hungry growl from his own throat is echoed by the deeper ferocity of John’s. “On your back.” Big strong hands are everywhere, arranging. They caress his belly, stroke his cock, gently push his thighs up and out, exposing his wide open rose to his lover’s view. John’s on his knees in the vee of his legs, cock rampant, dribbling oil over his own hard flesh until his erection shines in the pale light. “So beautiful, Temp.”

“You.” He moans softly, reaching to touch John’s manhood. “You’re beautiful, John.”

John is pressing close, murmuring, “not like you, Temp. Never as beautiful as you.”, holding his hips steady, smooth, blunt head of his cock pressing at the stretched muscle, making it give, a little more each time, until, with a soul-deep groan from John and a whimpering cry of pleasure from him, it gives all the way and the thick, throbbing crown disappears inside him.

Good as it feels, there’s pain there, burning at the edges. “Don’t move.” John’s voice is soft, as gentle as the smile on his face, hands tight on his hips as he tries to squirm and ease the pressure. “Wait. Relax.” Not easy. Not at all. The burn. But the love in John’s eyes and the gentle stroking that starts up on his cock help it happen. “You look so good on my cock, Temp. So beautiful when you let me in. You think you could keep on being my starry-eyed virgin forever?”

“I don’t think I can….ahh, god John!” His hard shaft is tugged, skillfully, making him arch and sob with need, letting his lover press a few inches closer, deeper. When he can drag his mind back together he whispers, “I don’t think I’m a virgin anymore. Now that I’ve got your cock in my……oh…oh…yes…more…please!” Another masterful stroke undoes him, John’s hand turning, fingers teasing lightly over his sensitive tip, making him yearn, and lift, and John’s hips ease forward, driving another three or four inches in.

“John. John. John.” He can’t stop saying it, calling his man to him. There almost can’t be more of that thick heat to take, but he knows there is, he remembers the stunning length; and he wants it. All of it. Wants to give John everything. Wants to own his gorgeous hunk in return.

The hand on his cock speeds up, the strokes shorter, firmer, and heat floods him as he soars up the curve towards climax, still moaning his lover’s name, his body wide open. The thrust that sheaths John fully yanks an ecstatic shout from him, feeling the weight, the heat, the power his body is containing. That John’s hand is tight around the base of his shaft, keeping his climax at bay hardly registers in the storm seething in him.

Then John’s bending, changing their position, stroking his cock slowly up between their stomachs as he lets his weight rest. Warm palm on his thigh, lifting, guiding, until first one leg and then the other are wrapped around John’s back. Further down, chest to chest, John’s right hand under his head, threading through his curls, tipping him to kiss, the left caressing along his arm, catching his wrist to lift his arm up around that corded neck. 

Kiss presses on kiss, wet and deep and hungry, breaking only when John starts to push himself up on his hands. “Hold on to me, honey love.” Chin tipped, staring up into those gorgeous eyes, he lets his hand trail down the solid line of his lover’s heavy back muscles, rubbing gently, pressing upward, telling John he’s ready, so ready.

The first thrust shows him he’s not, he couldn’t be, not for the passion and the power. Not for the fierce male animal in his arms. Not for the fierce male animal in himself.

 

No wonder he didn’t want Mandy this way. No wonder really why he’s never wanted any girl this way. It was this he wanted all along. To be chased until he’s caught. To be coaxed open. To be on the receiving end of the glory. To be mastered.

This is what he needs. To be tacked to the mattress and fucked to oblivion, each stroke strong and measured and possessive, his tight rose burning with pleasure as John’s cock opens him, teaches him. John’s hand is still cupping his head, tugging on his hair until he offers his throat, and he cries out in pleasure when the older man finally bites, thrilling upward to his lover’s claim, spreading his thighs as far as humanly possible to get the shaft in his ass to plow deeper. 

Clutching hard when John pulls back, his legs tight on leanly fleshed ribs, his fingers digging in to muscle with bruising force, he stakes his own claim. And when he gets the chance, biting back, marking his territory, teeth in John’s shoulder, feeling the older man shudder with desire, hearing him shout this time, a big hand jerking his ass higher, the angle shifting. 

Ecstasy blares through his body when the massive head of John’s cock rubs over that same spot from before. That little hot button down inside. Muscles clenching and fluttering, he bucks up hard, his own leaking cock throbbing between them, savoring John’s intense growl as his thrusts deepen and quicken, hammering into soft, giving flesh, right where they both need it most. 

It’s onrushing then, like a landslide, like fate, like the plan and their place in it are perfectly, achingly clear. Like they’ve been heading toward this moment since their eyes met the first time. There’s no room for words, they don’t need them anyway, heart is speaking to heart, silent, seamless, and absolute.

His final buck upward is met by John’s deepest thrust and he spins over the edge, out of control, yelling in ever louder bursts of sound as he climaxes, clutching his lover to him, shuddering up into John’s solid bulk, long, thick spurts of semen jetting between them, slick and fragrant.

He can feel his ass clench with every pulse of his orgasm, hear and feel John’s grunts of pleasure as his hips flex forward into each pull, fucking him through it, giving his all. Deep breath drawn in on a moan, he feels the magnificent length of his lover’s cock turn to hot iron inside him, feels John press just that tiny fraction closer, and explode.

Surging heat fills him, and he screams this time, really screams, can’t help it at all. John’s orgasm is a flood, flaring hot and sweet over his sensitive prostate as the older man lets it all go, holding him tight, groaning in his ear. It’s not given voice, the word, but it doesn’t need to be, he hears it, loud and clear, over and over. Mine.

 

 

Life’s just gotten more and more amazing since then. There was pillow talk, but not much, mostly just cleaning up and cuddling close, him spooned into John, before they both fell asleep. John had wakened him with waffles in bed that morning, and they’d kissed their syrupy way through breakfast and into the shower, admiring the marks they’d left on each other even as they added more.

That had been the day he found the crumpled business card in the pocket of his jeans and called Ms. Hart from CPS. And been stunned to hear that the community had rushed to support the kids, donations had come in from all over, new clothes, bikes, books, money. Enough so a lot of kids were benefitting. Four people had come forward as foster families, each willing to take the whole bundle. “One of them was your counselor, Mr. Peck. A Steven Pantoli. He and his wife Jennifer are childless. Well, once your gang heard he was there, it was all over. We have to put the Pantolis through the fostering process, but there’s every likelihood that Travis, Jen, Jen and Scott will be able to go home with them by Labor Day.” He thanked her, told her he’d check in from time to time. She’d told him again what a rock he’d been to those kids, how lucky they were to have had him there.

He’d wandered out onto the porch where John was pulling out some rotted boards that needed fixing. The older man had seen the look in his eyes and come to him wordlessly, wrapping him in warm arms, kissing his cheekbone. He’d leaned there, absorbing the comfort, trying to tell John the good news, and burst into tears. John had perfect shoulders for crying on, and so he’d let all the pain and anger and loss flow out of him, making dark spots on John’s gray T-shirt until he felt better, lighter.

“C,mon.” John had murmured in his ear. “Help me finish this and then we’ll take a swim, cool off before dinner. Okay, Temp?”

He’d clutched for a moment and then let go, knowing he’d be welcome back whenever he needed it, but grateful that John was providing a distraction where he could hit things with a big hammer; tear down the old and make something new.

They’d developed a very loose routine after that. Up early. Run on the beach. Dip in the ocean. Shower together. Breakfast, clothes. Morning is for strenuous things. Hiking. Fixing the porch. Learning to fight. He’d asked John for a couple of tricks to defend himself with, and been told that if he wanted to learn John would teach, but it had to be from square one. Like he was going to refuse? It’s mesmerizing watching John, listening to him, mimicking him as they work through punches and kicks and escapes. They’ve spent hours in the sand some days, long enough that John makes him stop and eat some lunch and relax.

That’s what afternoons are for. Chairs side by side on the porch. Sunbathing. Reading. Lying together in the big padded hammock that hangs between two trees in the grove beside the house. Floating in the ocean. Breathing in the peace.

Dinner is always a mutual creation. They trade off. One of them makes the main dish and the other everything else. It’s led to some interesting combinations, like the bratwurst and asparagus night. With cherry popsicles to follow. The unintended symbolism of all of it had only hit them when they were sitting on the steps together, mouths full of cool, double-sticked goodness. “You trying to tell me something, kiddo?” John had laughed, holding his popsicle up, eyeing it with a grin. “You trying to tell me something, old man?” he’d giggled back, stained tongue slipping lasciviously over his melting dessert. Things had got noticeably sticky after that. And cherry-flavored.

Evening is really his favorite time, and it seems to be John’s too. The air cooling down; the sun sliding off from dusk to dark; the woods going that deep welcoming green that makes them look like something out of a fairytale. Grabbing a sweatshirt for a long walk down the cool, tide-washed beach together, sitting up on the rocks just listening to the ocean boom, or lying on the big old sofa on the screened porch, head pillowed in John’s lap while the older man smokes a cigar and rubs his back. Evening has become the time for long talks and equally long comfortable silences, and it’s wonderful.

He’s learned a lot by the time June turns into July. He can run ten miles a day. John’s cock, coated in maple syrup, is truly the breakfast of champions. One hundred push-ups is not an impossible thing. John can speak French. And Russian. And Arabic. The whole making love in the surf thing is a crock of shit. Caviar is delicious. John is a surprisingly good, incredibly sexy, dancer. Shaving every day is overrated. As is wearing more than the bare minimum of clothes. He really gets off on John mounting him, and then pulling out, and then mounting him, over and over. John, on the other hand, is all about staying power, thrusting slow, lingering deep, endless, soul-shattering orgasms. Shakespeare’s sonnets, if read to you in a darkened room by a man you love, are so not as boring as they were in first period Lit. A great tan is worth working for. John is his one true love. And, last but not least, M&Ms may not melt in your hand, but they will melt. Especially if you leave them on the warm slope of your lover’s chest and then smush them with your thumb.

It’s the fourth today. Independence Day. Ducktrap has a town picnic. Parade. Fireworks. John had asked him last night, after love, if he wanted to go, or if he wanted just another quiet day, just the two of them. The black Xs on the calendar that are taking them closer to Labor Day are scary enough without giving up one of those clean white squares to other people, and he’d suggested they have their own picnic, down on the beach.

Reaching out, he runs a finger down John’s arm, shoulder to wrist, waiting for the grumble of his lover waking up. That big hand twitches under his as he caresses each loosely curled finger. Is it possible to die from love? Yeah, yeah, it is. Make that the biggest truth he’s learned since this whole thing started. If he loses this love, this man, he’ll die. How he’s going to reconcile that with the big red star on September 17th, and the thick green package of official military stuff that came in the mail a couple of days ago, he can’t figure out. Doesn’t want to think about. 

So he’s thinking about John instead.

 

Nudging closer, he flips the sheet up, letting it billow off and to the floor. God but John’s beautiful. He couldn’t see it, but John had said he’d got fat sitting around in Germany. He has a pretty damned fine view of everything, and there’s no fat now. John’s all long lean muscle and deeply tanned skin. Except where that orange suit covers. And the scars. They don’t tan. Won’t ever.

But he’s not thinking about that, right? Not thinking about the Army taking John away from him. Finger reaching, he strokes gently along John’s belly where the tan ends and then slowly down the arrow of chestnut hairs, shining just a bit in the reflected dawn sparkling through the windows.

Shuffling in he presses a kiss just there, letting his hand slip down to lift the soft thick cock that’s slumbering along John’s hard thigh. Stroking gently he lets his lips fall where they like, rubbing his mouth against skin and hair, his cheek against the rapidly hardening manhood in his hand. The man smells so good, tastes so good, salt and sunshine and clean sheets and soap. So involved with all that is he, he doesn’t register that John’s rolling over until it’s done and he’s lying between long legs, his mouth pressed against the crease of John’s thigh, the cock in his hand straight up now, full and hot.

Finishing the kiss, he opens his eyes slowly, looking for John’s brilliant eyes up over the landscape of his body. The heat there is amazing. But more amazing is the love, so pure and sweet that his heart swells and he feels like SuperTemp, able to jump his lover in a single bound. It’ll be welcomed, he’s pretty damned sure of that. He’s never been told no in this bed, never pushed away. There’s nothing on this earth that feels as good as John taking him; and he wants John to feel that. But most of all he wants to see John’s face, wants those eyes focused on his while he moves in John’s body, wants John flat on his back, shouting when he comes.

One final kiss pressed to the heart shape of John’s tip, tongue tapping gently, he crawls up the older man, kissing brown spots, licking scars, nibbling at the definition of hard muscles, until he can plunk his chin in the hollow of John’s collarbone and nip at warm bronze neck. Not sure how to ask, he whispers, quick and dirty against John’s wet skin.

“What Temp?” John rumbles, hands slipping down, kneading his ass cheeks warmly, shaping them around the length of his cock, cuddling him close.

Getting an elbow under he pushes up enough to say, “CanIfuckyou?” right in John’s ear. Then slithers back down, chin returning to the warm hollow, being hot fudge to John’s ice cream, before his man can catch him.

And there’s nothing. No reaction. Only John breathing evenly under him, those strong hands still working his ass. Lip between his teeth, he moves to his elbows, rubbing the soft brush of his unshaven chin on John’s skin, then to his hands, lifting up all the way, looking at John’s face, seeing the warm sexy smile. “Can I?”

“May I.” John teases softly, laughing out loud as he blushes like a fire engine and starts trying to get away. “Hey. Hey. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t resist. Look at me. C’mon Templeton.”

Because he loves the man, and because he can hear the apology in his voice, he sits up on John’s midriff, palms circling on that solid chest, and stares down into those luminous eyes again, the laughter bubbling between them. “May I fuck you, John?”

“Oh yes you may.” John’s hips buck up invitingly and his cock, pressed lightly between them, throbs with the rush of blood, and the growl in John’s throat is anticipation itself. “Been wondering when you might ask. I knew you’d get to it. When you were ready.”

“Do you want me to? If you don’t want me to…I mean…if you don’t let…” Not really sure what he’s trying to say, he shuts up, waiting for the voice of experience.

John obliges, eyes gentle and understanding. “I don’t let. Not usually. But you? Been thinking about offering, if you didn’t ask. I want you so, Temp. I want to feel that. Want you to feel it too.” 

“Yeah?” The smile on his face is big and silly, but there’s not one damn thing he can do about it. Not one damn thing he wants to do about it.

“Yeah. C’mon up here and get the slick, honey love.”

 

Leaning up, he reaches the bottle from where John left it last night, tipping it back and forth in his hand, warming it, like he’s seen John do. But now what? How does he…? He can’t picture John astride him, or those long legs around his waist, but he’s not doing this from behind, he needs to see the pleasure on John’s face. Maybe he could….

“You’re overthinking, sweetheart.” John eases out from under him, tipping him off very slowly, until they’re on their sides, nose to nose. “Give me the oil and hold out your hand.”

Obediently, he turns the bottle over and just waits, hand out, feeling the oil flow into his palm, down his fingers. The scent of vanilla is warm in his nose, as exciting as any other bit of foreplay, and his cock twitches with desire. Then John’s dropping the bottle, lifting his leg, planting that foot on his knee, opening wide. “C’mon honey love.” His hand is taken, led, his fingers pressed gently behind John’s balls, and up, and there. There. John’s soft bud, plump to his touch. Warm. Rubbing a slick fingertip over the silky-tender skin, he surges forward, mouth open to catch the moan that John utters when he pushes in.

So soft. Gripping his finger like the tightest glove imaginable. So warm in there, just like the rest of John. Remembering how it felt when John caressed him for the first time, he slips his finger in and out, gently pressing oil through the tight rose, feeling his lover clench and squirm and growl.

He has to see John’s face. Pulling back, letting his tongue flick across his lover’s lip as he goes, he stares into John’s hazy eyes. “Does that feel good?” he can’t help but ask, heart burning in his chest. John’s so beautiful. So beautiful and warm.

“ohhhhhhhhh.” The moan is low and sweet. “oh, yes. Deeper, Temp. Go deeper, love.” John makes a soft yelp like he’s never heard before when he slides in as far as his middle finger can reach. Strong thighs are trembling against his wrist and that tremendous cock is quivering against his belly, leaving smears of musk. “turn your hand…..turn…just…right there. Right there. Right there.”

All of John is quivering now; the fingers clutching his shoulder, the tender curve of his lips, even the soft little shape under his circling finger. The drops of thick pre-cum have turned into a slow trickle that’s painting his abs with warmth, John’s exotic scent a hundred times as arousing as the oil.

It’s not very big, that pulsing little nub, to be what’s driving John so crazy, what drives him so crazy when John hits it dead on. Slipping out to a sob of disappointment, he gets a happy yowl out of his man when he slicks his fingers in the oil on John’s ass and slides back in with two, stretching them apart now, turning and stroking, coaxing John’s muscles to give.

“Think you can find it again?” John is panting, a dozen or so strokes later, moving in graceful counterpoint to his thrusting fingers. “With that gorgeous cock of yours, Temp?”

“I’ll try.” He breathes into his lover’s mouth before kissing him hungrily, sliding his fingers deeper, pressing gently on the tender place, making John melt into him in a really delicious way. He could finish this here, he knows it. Make John come, just like this. Swallow him while he does it, all that cream in his mouth. 

“Now, Temp. Please?” John whispers against his lips, torso curving, laying back against the pillows, hands beckoning. “On top for me, sweetheart?” 

The thrill that runs through him at that invitation passes on into John and he smiles as they part, hands on his own body, knees bent, heels planted on the bed. The oil is nudged into his reach by a big foot and he moves up, kneeling between those hard brown thighs he loves so much, slicking his shaft, slicking John’s, pouring oil over his lover’s balls, down into his crack, emptying the bottle, wanting it wet and slippery and good.

The first push of his cock at John’s rose has the older man pressing close, arching, spreading his thighs. “All. Please Temp. All of you.”

“I don’t want to hurt….”

“You won’t.” John’s voice is rising, needy. “Please honey love!”

It’s that little pet name that gets him, like it does every time John uses it, and he thrusts through the tight ring, arching his back even as John lifts up to him again, and two hot, fierce cries of pleasure mingle in the cool morning air. John’s perfection. Hotter than fire. Tighter than sin. Deep and narrow and slick and tender and …

“Move.” That single word is all he needs to make him draw back, reach for John’s hips and buck back in, deeper yet.

 

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for this. How it feels. The most sensitive part of his body wrapped in warmth, gripped by tiny muscles that shift and quiver with every movement, every breath, massaged by flesh so soft and giving that he clutches his man tight, panting.

“Feel good, sweetheart?” John’s voice is strained with passion as he arches into the thrust, thighs flexing. The sight of that strong body accepting him, cock hard and eager between them, the jump of John’s stomach muscles working as he moans, nearly sends him flying. “Feels good to me, Temp.”

John’s doing it to him again. He can’t catch a thought, can’t form a word. Eyes shut tight in concentration, he can only shiver and moan, yearning, rocking his length inside his lover’s body, wanting to stay forever. But God he wants to thrust too, to stroke until his heart explodes. He wants everything, all at once, in huge tasty gulps.

“Relax.” Fingertips are stroking his chest, tuning him in, gentling him down until he can open his eyes and meet John’s warm gaze, see the pleasure washing through John’s entire body. “Not a race. Just all about being together, kiddo.” John’s hand is moving higher, rubbing gently up his shoulder. “Remember what I said about listening? When you care? Listen?”

His lover’s hand has reached his face and he bends into it gratefully, rubbing his cheek on John’s palm. “yeah, I remember.”

“Then listen. To me and to yourself. And follow your instincts. I know you know how to do that.” The sexy smile on John’s face is all warm memory and sensual encouragement, and he leans in to kiss, running a hand up lean ribs, planting his fist in the bed under John’s arm, rocking forward, driving in.

The low cry he gets in response, warm and vibrating in his mouth, shoots another thrill through him. He’s possessing John. Better yet, John’s letting him, giving up control for him. John wants this, and he wants to give it…everything. Everything there is. With John.

Pulling out is exquisite torture, the grabbing at his cock so delicious he can hardly stand it. He can feel where his man finds it so delicious as well and makes sure he lifts his hips and drives back in at a better angle, pressing those pleasure points, one after the other. 

Listening, feeling, letting his body run the show, each penetration improves the connection, and it’s not long before he’s found the groove, bang on John’s prostate, deep and strong, his smooth tip rubbing over the soft shape again and again, the stimulation somewhere north of divine and on its way to nirvana.

John’s stirring beneath him, meeting his thrusts, body wide open. Eyes wide open too. Soft and blue and lust-blown. Those hands he loves are flat on the rise of his ass, sliding up to the small of his back, pulling, kneading. That cock he loves is jerking against his belly, every slide of their bodies squeezing the hard length, that soft, soft skin on the underside rubbing against the furred lines of his abs. 

He wants to just drown in the perfection of it all, stay right in this moment. But he can feel John building, feel the thickening of his cock, the melting warmth of his passage getting tighter, and he drives in harder, sharp, quick strokes that push his man over the edge into climax.

John falling apart is the most awe-inspiring thing ever. He’s seen this from the other side, seen the set jaw, the vague wild eyes as his lover comes inside him. But this is different, this is John impaled, blown open, his semen flowing up and out in rhythmic pulses, slicking their bellies with warmth. His ass clenching and fluttering, muscles spasming as he releases. His voice, that deep, warm tone, a long sustained song of pure surrender.

It’s that that ends it. He’s just not made to take that kind of sound from his mate and not answer it with his own explosion. Voice rising in the cool air, matching John’s, lifting beyond, his cock hardening, balls drawing up, he drives one last hard thrust and feels his soul rush into John with the torrent of his climax. 

It’s magic. Bliss. Euphoria. Paradise. His brain overloads on the sensations running through him and shorts out with a blooming darkness he can’t fight. Doesn’t want to fight, because John’s it in with him, and for a moment, just an eternal instant, they’re one.

 

Ebbing back to shore, he lifts his head slowly from John’s solid shoulder, feeling every cell, savoring the slide of his softened cock out of John’s body, kissing along the line of his lover’s strong jaw until he can get all of that delicious mouth. “love you.” He breathes when it breaks for air. “love you, John. With all my heart.”

His answer is kisses. Warm and slow and languid. Hands in his hair, gently pulling through his sweat-dampened curls. “Love you too, sweetheart. So much. My strong boy.”

“Pretty good for my first time?” It sounds like teasing, but they both know it isn’t, and John enfolds him in those long, strong arms, pulling him close, nuzzling at his mouth.

“Pretty good? Are you kidding me? Try best. Ever.”

That last word fans through him and he can feel John smiling against his lips as he blushes, closing his eyes, ducking his head, pressing down into his lover’s embrace.

“Ever?”

John squeezes the breath out of him, getting a long leg up around too. “Ever in my life, Templeton. No one’s ever loved me like you do.”

He’s up in a second, reaching to caress John’s thigh where it’s resting, warm and comfortable, against his flank, staring down into those brilliant blue pools. “Don’t go.”

To his credit, the older man doesn’t even try to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “I have to, Temp. I’m a soldier. It’s the thing I’m best at. Always has been.”

“Then I want to come with you.” The words shock them both a bit. They just jumped out of his mouth so damn fast, without him even knowing he thought them.

“What?!?! No! No. After everything you’ve worked for? After your scholarship? After you fought so hard for all that?”

“I could do it.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” He can see the little bit of longing speculation in the older man’s eyes. “But you’re meant for different things kiddo. You’re meant for an advertising executive. Or a lawyer. Or an actor, or some other damn thing. After what you’ve been through you deserve someplace with clean sheets and catering. That’s what you worked for. What you’re going to college for. To get to the place where this brain and this handsome face will make you rich and famous. Make life easier for you, not harder.”

Chin rubbing into John’s palm, he tries not to show how his emotions are whipsawing with the older man’s words. He does want college. Needs to prove he’s not just that trashy foster kid. But he feels the pull of John and his world. It might be hard, the tiny part of it John’s shown him with the discipline and the readiness is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he knows in his gut he’s good at it. John caliber good. Great, maybe. “I don’t want anything nearly as much as I want to be with you.”

“You couldn’t be anyway. You’d have to enlist. Go through basic. Get into Ranger school. Pass Ranger school.”

“How long would that take?”

“Year. Probably two. Depend on how you showed. And in those same two years you’d be halfway to a degree. Why would you want to give that up? To live a life of dirt and isolation. Long days and longer nights. Of missions gone to shit and broken bodies and dead friends, and… ”

And right then, like John summoned them somehow, what sounds like at least a pair of jets comes screaming in from over the ocean, heading somewhere inland, no doubt part of someone’s patriotic show. It’s terrifying, feeling your warm, lazy lover turn to solid ice in your arms.

He’s pushed off, landing on his ass on the cold sheets, head spinning. John’s off the bed like a shot and into the corner, back to the wall, every muscle taut, panting like a hurt dog. It’s not until the noise of the jets is fading that he hears the words falling from his man’s mouth. “no…no…no. Not there. Not there anymore. Not ever again.” What pulls him up from the bed, hands outstretched, is John sliding down the wall, sobs starting to tear from his throat, his hands searching across his belly, pressing in, eyes blank. He’s somewhere else right now, John is, lost in the past, re-living, and the terror grows, spreads, because he has no fucking idea what he should do.

 

His first tentative, “John?” has no effect, and neither does the second one. The third one is a harsh, frightened bark of noise, but the man is still long gone, crouched, crying, hand over the scars, speaking nonsense.

There has to be a way to reach him. Has to be. He’s not going to accept anything else. If words can’t get through, maybe hands can, maybe kisses…. But John lashes out when he gets too close, and he’s seen, and felt, more than enough of John’s power in a fight.

So don’t make it a fight. He’s going too fast, making movements and sounds that are sudden and sharp. That’s not going to get it done. John needs slow. John needs gentle. John needs him to be his lover more now than he did while they were in the clinch. So be that. Slow and gentle.

Moving gracefully to his knees beside the bed, he gets down to John’s level, taking away any kind of threat that his body might be making, then puts his hand on the floor where John can see it, humming a sort of nonsense song that he keeps in his head for the nights when bad dreams attack. There’s no reaction, which is exactly what he hoped for, and it makes him bold enough to slide closer, keeping his palm on the floor, sliding the side of his hand against John’s foot with infinite care.

John lets it stay, staring at the way their skins are touching. The words have all gone, his man has only tears left, and Templeton wants nothing more than to grab and clutch and have John be John again. But then, this is John, just a part he’s hasn’t seen face to face yet, though he has to admit to himself that he was pretty sure it was there, hiding. Didn’t expect it to make itself known quite this way, but if it can help John open up, help John look at that wounded guy that’s hiding in him, then it’s good. Scary, but good.

Staying slow, keeping it gentle, he lifts his hand just enough to slip up the top of John’s big foot, rub his thumb over the slim bones, and bracelet John’s ankle with his hand, caressing gently, starting to let words into his humming. Just John’s name; calling him back. His hand isn’t flung off, the foot isn’t pulled away, so he moves up John’s hard, brown leg, rubbing at calf muscle, circling kneecap, squeezing gently at thigh.

“You’re ok, John. Everything’s ok. Please relax, love. Please. You’re not there, where you got hurt. You’re here. With me. Remember me?” John is shifting restlessly, eyes downcast, shaking his head, tears flying. “You don’t remember me?” he whispers, moving to sit on the cool floorboards, pressing a kiss to the outside of John’s bent knee. That draws a sound, the beginning of one anyway, that gets stuck behind the sorrow in his man’s throat.

Looking up, he sees John begging him through all that watery blue. He wasn’t supposed to see this fear, no one was supposed to find out that while his body might be healed, John’s spirit isn’t. The man is lost right now, somewhere between ‘hold me’ and ‘stop staring’, so he does both, moving his bare ass over the smooth pine boards until they’re hip to hip. Slowly, tenderly, reaching for John’s neck, guiding him down, gentling him, shifting until he can lean on the wall and settle his lover’s wet cheek against his shoulder.

The arm that slips around him is shaking. “Temp.”

“See, I knew you remembered me. Relax John. Please. Just relax.”

It’s a battle, but the rush of his man’s body releasing all the hurt and anger and terror makes his heart waver in his chest as John loosens up, lets it go, unbending down into his arms. Heaving a deep sigh, John starts to talk.

And he talks. Halting at one moment; a rush of words the next. But once the faucet is opened, John can’t close it. More like won’t close it. He has a safe and solid repository for this story now, someone who’ll love him just the same no matter what comes out of his mouth. It’s not pretty, what comes out. Mandy was right. Everyone else died in that arid little patch of Afghanistan. And John had to let them, had to follow his CO’s orders when the plan went to shit, had to abandon his teammates to get the intel that they’d gone in to steal out again. 

He’d been wounded twice, was going on willpower alone to get to the pickup site when he was overtaken. Luckily, or maybe not, the guys who caught him were themselves on the run from an American detachment that was trying to clear the roads. Ten minutes later, while the hostiles were arguing over whether he was more valuable dead than alive, the first shots began to ping around them. Ten minutes after that it was a full-blown firefight. And ten minutes after that, John almost met his maker.

Death came for him in the form of a very recognizable grenade. An exact copy of the same ordnance he’d thrown himself in situations just like that one. He’d seen how it was going to fall, who was going to take the brunt, and managed to move enough to swing the odds in his favor. Still the shrapnel had nearly torn his guts out, leaving him broken and bleeding into the dirt. Then the corporal that was leading the forward team had come within in an ace of shooting him for a hostile, seeing as how he wasn’t in anything resembling uniform.

He’d explained, calmly and quietly, who he was and what he was doing to a terrified kid from Alabama with his finger on the trigger of a very large weapon. The kid had eventually gotten enough on the ball to get his own Captain, and their medic, who had pasted him back together well enough that he lived to make it to the field hospital. After that it’s mostly black. And red. And full of memories of shouting and gunshots and the screaming agony of his friends as they died. It’s never left him. It never will. He’s got to go back, he almost aches to go back, but he can’t just…go back. 

There’s a medal and a promotion waiting, neither of which he wants. How do you move up in rank by just surviving? How do they decorate you for that? How can you go forward with the evidence on your chest? On your shoulders? In your heart?

“Evidence of what, John?”

“Failure.” John convulses with fresh grief. “Cowardice.”

“John. How the hell are you a coward? Or a failure, for Christ’s sake! You finished the job. You got what you went for. How many lives did you save by doing that? How can you call that failure?”

His man is thinking, turning all that over in that brilliant mind of his. “I guess I just…it doesn’t seem…why me? I…why me, Temp?”

Rubbing a hand up and down John’s bare arm, he answers softly, “I used to ask myself that. Why me? Why was I an orphan? Why was my life so hard? Why didn’t anyone love me? But you know what I ask myself now?”

“What?” 

“Why me? How did I get so damned lucky to be here? With you?”

“You do know why, right?” John’s hands are returning the favor, warming his chest and belly with each gentle pass. “Because you followed your instincts. Because you were true to yourself.”

“Would you listen to yourself then? You did the best you could. You fought all the way to the end. You learned something. You’ll never get caught out again like that, I bet. Never let yourself go to work without two or three plans. Better plans.”

John’s pushing up then, off his shoulder, back to the wall beside him, hand lazily stroking his thigh. “You think?”

He captures the hand, gently holding it to his bare skin. “Yeah. I think. Smart ass like you?”

“Yeah.” The kiss John gives him is slow and breathtaking. “Let’s grab a shower. Pack a lunch and blanket and hike back up to the bluff. What d’you say?”

“Will you call me honey love?”

He can see the blush under John’s tan, and his stupid heart is wavering again. “Honey. Love.” His man says quietly. “god I’m gonna miss you kid.” Then he’s plucked off the floor and bundled into the shower and kissed right into oblivion.

 

And then, almost too fast to see, it’s Labor Day, and he and John are showering, getting ready to go into town. They were kind of hoodwinked into this, having been down to get supplies from Charlie on Wednesday. Charlie had been sitting behind the counter, having a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Strawberry-rhubarb. He’d made some innocent comment about how good it looked and the old store-keeper had started into a story about his Betsy and how her pie won the contest at every Labor Day picnic. Then John had come up with the coffee and a pound of butter to add to their load.

“And you, Johnny Smith.”

“Yeah, Charlie?

“My lovely Betsy’s wondering when you might come round for some of her pie. Seeing as how you used to just stroll up to the house when she was baking and pull weeds for her until they were cool enough to cut.”

And John had laughed, a blush tingeing his cheeks. “I did at that. Those pies were worth every minute. I haven’t meant to be rude, Charlie, really. I just…we…”

“Came up here to relax. I know. And your time is your own. But she would love to see you John. And meet Temp. Even if you don’t come down for the town parts of it, there’s always room in our yard for dinner. Can I tell her you’ll come?”

John had looked at him, so he’d answered for them both. “We’ll come. Anybody that can get him to pull weeds is a lady I need to meet. What can we bring?”

A grin had lit up the old man’s face. “Why yourselves is all, Templeton. Just yourselves.”

Running his hands over John’s wet shoulders now, rinsing the soap off, he kind of wishes he hadn’t agreed, even though it would have hurt Charlie’s feelings. They’ve only got thirteen more days. Thirteen. That is so not enough. 

“Relax, Temp.” John is turning in his arms, pulling him close in the rush of warm water. “Don’t be thinking about it.”

“About what?” he teases softly, kissing his lover’s damp bicep. “What am I thinking about?”

John makes an exasperated sound and pinches an inch of warm, hard buttock. “Brat. You know what.” John doesn’t want to voice it either, and that makes him press closer, lift his mouth for soft, intimate kisses, hold on tight, even as John reaches behind him and shuts off the taps. “c’mon, kid. We’re gonna be late.”

 

“John?” he calls, standing in front of the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, working at the buttons of his graduation shirt. There’s a grunt, or some sort of sound from the bedroom, and he grabs the handle, yanking the door open. “John?”

Tall handsome man in boxer briefs and a blue, chalk-stripe, mostly unbuttoned Brooks Brothers oxford is a sight to stop your heart, and it almost does as he watches John bend over to get a pair of jeans out of his bottom drawer. “Hey?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” John is in the Levis now, pulling them up, buttoning the fly, and he makes himself a mental note to get at those copper buttons later. Unbutton them. One by one. Very slowly.

Holding the tails in his hands, he tugs downward on the soft cotton for emphasis. “You shrunk my shirt.”

“I what? What the hell are you talking about, Temp? I haven’t washed that. I haven’t washed much of anything for you but T-shirts, shorts and underwear.”

“Well how d’you explain this then?”

“What this?” John is tucking his shirt in, buttoning it up to mid-chest.

“This.” He tugs, trying to get the buttons to the holes, trying not to pop every damn straining seam.

John takes a look, starts to laugh and comes to him, pushing him back into the bathroom, closing the door enough so that they can see themselves in the long mirror. Then those hands reach for his, unbending his fingers, making him let go the cheap white fabric. “The shirt didn’t shrink, honey love.” He can’t draw a deeper breath as John spreads the shirt open, baring his chest, tracing through the dark crop of fur that he seems to have now, strokes down along the hard muscles of his belly and back up over his heart to his shoulders, caressing. “The kid grew.”

Well, hell. He reaches to touch, watching his own hands in the mirror.

“Look at yourself.” His man breathes in his ear, licking gently along the lobe. “I’m gonna have to stop calling you kid. Cause you aren’t anymore.”

And he’s not. He’s gained an inch or two on John. His shoulders are almost as wide too. And his chest, well, he’s actually got one now, as defined from his belly, which is itself flat and strong, all the way over to the oblique muscles at his sides, which are also defined, flexing lithely as he breathes. 

He knew he felt better, stronger. Working out with John is more fun than chore, and come to think of it, he hasn’t eaten much of anything beyond big hunks of protein and fruits and vegetables in two months, almost three. Well, waffles. And beer. But apparently those are okay with his body. 

“Damn.” He’s kind of in awe of it, of himself, now that he really looks.

“Yeah. Damn is the word for it.” John’s hand is dipping low, under the waistband of his khakis, which, come to think of it, is looser than it’s ever been. “Damn about describes you.” The older man’s fingers rub through the line of fur that arrows down from his navel, and he presses forward into the contact, catching John’s wrist, encouraging his hand deeper, into his tight underwear, to the stiffening shaft.

John’s flicking open the button, pushing at the zipper, shoving both pants and underwear down, just far enough to free him. A soft whine escapes him and he feels the heat in his face as his cock urges up into John’s hand, thick and red and needy.

“So beautiful.” John murmurs, stroking firmly, fingers playing along the vein. A delicious pinch to his nipple opens the eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed. “watch.”

And he does. Gaze locked on John’s big hand. Seeing as well as feeling how much this man adores him. Watching his shaft get harder, the head deepening to crimson as he soars up, shiny drops of pre-come slipping down to be captured by John’s thumb and improve the friction.

Quavering on the edge, lost to the pleasure, he looks up, meeting warm, aroused blue in the mirror. And he sees the desire, the unfathomable depths of love, and the spark of need in those eyes, staring even as he comes, his body jerking into his lover’s caresses, forcing his eyes to stay open so John can see him going over, see how he surrenders. Stares until his vision grays and he slumps back, heart pounding, chest heaving, to be held in warm arms and praised, over and over again.

 

The people he meets in Charlie’s yard got nothing on his morning’s experiences, but they are nice and everyone seems glad to meet him, and to have a story about Johnny. How strong and good and sturdy he is. What a credit he is to them, a soldier don’t you know, a decorated one, combat veteran. John Sr. and Ann must be so proud of that boy, and they are right to be.

By the time he circulates back to that boy, he’s answered where he’s going to college eighteen times, how he met John twenty-two times, and whether John’s still single a whopping thirty-three times. Charlie is telling everyone to find their seats because he’s going to have his annual speech, and he doesn’t have time to do more than swing a leg over and give John a grin, before the old man is starting up.

Charlie starts by going over everything that’s happened since the last speech, drawing sighs and laughter and a few tears. These events are clearly shared by everyone in the group, Ducktrap being what it is, they all know each other’s business. Fun is poked at some people, most of whom laugh appreciatively. Then he goes on to the pie and how Betsy, who is the kindest person Temp has ever met, won the ribbon again this year.

“And I need to say how good it is to see folks back to home. I’m talking about you, Johnny, don’t you even try to hide behind Templeton’s shoulder there. It’s good to have you back, son. Really good. All of us here know what you do for this country, and we all owe you a thanks.” There’s much agreement from the crowd and he smiles, trying to seem admiring, not ass over heels in love, as John acknowledges the sentiment. The fear and anger is gone. Completely. John’s ready to be Major John ‘Hannibal’ Smith now. And fuck if he’s going to let all these people see him cry.

It’s late when they get back, tomorrow already, now twelve days. Only twelve days. How can that be? Where did their time go? And John is so ready to go, ready to do the job again. How can he say good-bye? Eyes closed, he sits in the truck, listening to rain begin to patter softly on the roof, thinking if maybe he just holds still, he can.. But the door opens, and John is there, coaxing him out, holding him close, kissing his cheekbones, his closed eyes.

“Out you get, Temp. Come on. Let’s go to bed, sweetheart. It’s turning cold, looks like it’s gonna rain all night, and I want to hold you.”

Until the front door he lets John steer, but once it’s closed behind them he pulls away, angling toward the screened porch, the big sofa with its soft cushions and warm quilts. He can build a cocoon around himself and John there. Hibernate with his man through the coming winter, never have to leave.

John’s right, it is chilly on the porch when he steps over the lintel, and a little bit damp. But some of his favorite times have been out here in the beautiful dark, the soft boom of the surf in his ears, the random sounds of the night surrounding them while they look for heaven together. He wants that now. Needs it. Needs to write the feelings on his skin while John’s still here, while they still have time.

Turning, grabbing, he makes use of his increased power to wrap an arm around John’s lean waist and reel him in. His lover laughs softly, and he knows he’s getting what he wants because John wants to give it, which makes it all the sweeter when the older man goes with the pull and then the push, sprawling full length on the rose-patterned cushions, one arm tucked behind his head, big feet still hanging off the edge.

“Gonna undress you.” He breathes, cupping John’s calf, lifting to get at the bootlaces, freeing first one foot and then the other, running a knuckle up the bottom of soft white sock just to see his love squirm.

“No tickling.” John growls, reaching for his own shirt buttons.

“Stop.”

John’s grinning at him, eyes shining in the dark. “Did you just give me an order, kid?”

Moving quick, he pounces, straddling lean ribs, grabbing for big hands, lifting them over John’s head, pinning him down into the upholstery. “Thought you weren’t going to call me kid anymore. Cause I’m not one.”

His lover grumbles against his chin, fighting his grip just enough, hips bucking. A long leg wraps his hip and it becomes a hot little struggle, John twisting and pushing while he evens out his weight and flattens his arms on those long, hard arms, trying to keep the upper hand. “And you are going to lie still and let me take your clothes off.” He pants, watching John’s eyes.

“You think so?” John’s shifting and he can’t help an excited yelp when a sharp buck brings their flies together. Biting his lip, holding that friction, feeling the individual press of each of those copper buttons, he gives back as good as he’s getting. “Yeah, I think so. I think I’m gonna strip you naked and kiss every inch of you.” John’s still fighting, laughing softly, digging in with a heel, rubbing his bristly chin on Temp’s vulnerable neck. And all of a sudden it’s too much. That this may be the last time they do this. That they really do have to go forward. Separately.

Grabbing a fistful of collar, he pulls himself down and John up, pressing close, needing his man to feel it. This specialness, this connection, this amazing thing that they only have with each other.

“I love you so much.” There’s nothing more in his head, in his heart, than this. “I love you, John. I love you. Only you.”

“Shh, Temp. Shhh.” Freeing himself with a quick twist of wrist, John wraps both arms around, all playfulness abandoned, big hands rubbing gently at tense back muscle and straining neck. “I love you too. You’ve been carrying my heart around in your pocket since….”

“Since?”

Warm lips brush over his eyebrow, his temple, his cheek. “Since you kept the watch. That’s when I knew you…”

Lifting up, he stares down into warm blue eyes. “When you knew I what?”

“Wanted more. Weren’t just flirting. That’s when I first thought I might actually get to kiss you.” 

Eyes soft with emotion, he can’t help but ask. “Yeah? You wanted to kiss me?”

The heated noise from deep in John’s chest rumbles through both of them. “More than anything. Wanted to pull you out of that chair and kiss you until you melted in my arms.”

“Then why won’t you let me go with you? Stay with you? Be with you?” Reaching a finger, he strokes gently along the line of John’s lips. “Why?”

“Honey…” the word comes out on a long sigh. “Because you can’t shape who you are to fit me, Temp. See, you can. But you shouldn’t. Much as I want you to, I can’t let you do that. It’s not right.”

“But I…”

“Hush a minute. You’re eighteen. You’ve got to admit that your life has changed in ways you never, ever imagined it would in the last three months. The thing is, every three months is like that when you’re eighteen. New things happen to you all the time. Everything’s choices and paths and freedom and decisions. And you have to make those from what’s inside you, baby. Not from this, not from this idyllic place we’re in right now. Because this is not reality, what we’ve got going. You’re hard-headed enough to know that, right? That we’re in Shangri-La right now?”

Hand propped on his chin, elbow on the pillow under John’s head, he stares out at the rain beyond the screens, tears standing in his eyes. “Yeah. I do know. Bastard. I know.”

“I’d be more of a bastard if I didn’t tell you, if I just let you take the easy way. I can’t do that, honey.” Long warm arms cuddle him closer, and a strong hand teases along his jawline, coaxing him to look back into his lover’s eyes. “There’s so much to you, Templeton. So much strength and intelligence and beauty and fire. You gotta go, kid. You gotta be on your own. You gotta take all the things you’ve learned, all the things you are, and see what you can make of them.”

“If you love something, let it go, right? Is that what this is?”

“No.” John answers seriously. “This is me letting you be who you are. And you letting me be who I am. If those two people can go back to their real lives and get through it, and be whole, and find a way to make a commitment to each other, no one will be happier than me, honey love. But I have to go back and see who I am. And you have to go forward, and see who you are. Do you see what I’m trying to say, Temp?”

He nods, tears leaking down his face now, because John’s right, and he knows John’s right, and he hates John a little bit for being right, but mostly because he knows there’s a part of him that would suffer if he just went with John. All those things he’s dreamed about, being in college, filling his mind, living on his own, being his own master, those things won’t happen, and he’ll always wonder.

“You’ll always wonder.” John whispers, like a human echo, tugging him down to kiss. “You’ll always think about what you might have done. And the slate is so clean for you, honey. You’re just brand new, kiddo. Mint in the box.”

“Not quite.” He growls, loving the man beneath more than he ever has, more than he ever thought he could, feeling something crack open inside him and let the Templeton he’s going to be start to grow. “Some old man busted my cherry.”

“Guilty.” John growls back, a warm, excited sound in the cool air, wicked smile on his face. “not even going to try to pretend I apologize for that. Cause I don’t. Cause being the first for someone as fine as you, Temp? That’s something I’ll never forget. Ever. So sweet. Trusting me. Giving yourself to me.”

John’s tipping his chin, asking for the kiss, waiting for the connection.

“No matter what happens, I’ll never forget you either John. I’ll never forget this summer, never forget any of this.” And he bends, taking his lover’s mouth, slow and hot and aggressive, thinking not of having to part, but for the first time imagining how many delicious things they can still get up to before they have to drive away from this place, from their little Shangri-La.

Letting the kiss end in softness, lips hovering warm and wet against John’s, he murmurs, “time for me to take your clothes off now, sweetheart. And you’re going to lay still. And let me.”

 

Pressing up, straddling those lean hips, he gently tugs John’s shirttails out, taking a moment to caress hard, bare belly before letting the crisp cotton whisper back down. “Want you naked. Want to kiss every inch of you.” The bottom button slips through its neatly stitched hole for his nimble fingers, and the intake of breath from his lover, the jump of his cock, is all the encouragement he could ever want.

He takes his time with each little plastic circle, pushing it through, mouth drifting over more smooth, tanned skin as fabric falls to the sides. The hollow of John’s sternum is bared and he laves the warm triangle with gentle strokes, feeling his lover gasp and shiver, big hands lifting.

“Lie still.” He admonishes gently, pulling along the line of John’s ribs with bared teeth, sizzling sensitive nerves.

“Damn. Ah, damn, Temp. please.”

Heat floods him, hearing the passion in John’s voice. “No touching. You’re doing the feeling. I’m doing the touching.”

Waiting until he can feel John’s hands hit the cushions, he slips the last button quick, diving down, pulling the whole soft shape of John’s left nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, reaching to brush a thumb over the rapidly hardening nub on the right, not wanting it to feel left out. The sound out of the older man is gorgeous, a sharp, sexy whimper of pure need.

There’s never enough of that in the world, so he switches sides, taking the soft flesh, molding it with his lips, fingers playing with the hard little nub he just suckled, smearing the wetness his mouth left over and around, hearing that whimper rise again as he draws on the responsive peaks.

Before the feeling can get to too much, he moves away, up, rubbing his parted lips over John’s chest, sucking just a little, blowing just a touch, making his lover’s skin heat and cool and tingle, lifting all those tiny hairs to attention.

“Ohhh, Temp. Where did you learn that?”

Thumb under John’s rough chin, he presses gently upward, making his man bare that soft throat for his kiss. “Nowhere.” His lover is quivering under him, warm brown skin begging for his lips. “Why? You like it?” he whispers, mouth brushing obligingly against pleasure points with every sound.

John’s body arches, all those lean muscles flexing, and hard fly buttons push into him again, with the solid weight of that big, beautiful cock behind them. “What d’you think, honey love? Do I like it?”

That feeling drives out everything else and he moans, “Love your cock.”, before he can stop himself, pushing down with his hips, rutting, biting gently at his love’s pulse. Then slithering down John’s body like water down a rock until he’s there, that first copper button warm against his lips. The quivering has intensified; he can feel the sensation dancing under his lover’s skin.

He promised himself slow with these buttons, but he just can’t hold back, grabbing each side of the thick denim in a fist and popping them open like a string of firecrackers, making John buck and shout, the hot, needy sound drowning out the rain for a long moment.

The shape is there, straining against pale cotton, framed in inky blue. Mesmerized, he tugs the Levis down until he can see it all, that solid, delicious length, lifting just a bit with each beat of John’s heart. Head lowered, he buries his face against that firm flesh, breathing in his lover’s musk, mouthing gently along the shaft. “Love your cock, John.”

A lost little whine sounds from above his head as he pulls away, deepening as he leaves the sofa entirely. He’s not going far, and he keeps a reassuring hand on John’s leg as he moves down, getting to the end where he can catch hold of each cuff and pull, quick jerks that have his man whimpering again as the jeans come off all the way, landing on the sandy floorboards.

John is everything. All he can see. All he can hear. All he can smell. Standing there, hands loosely hanging at his own pants button, he stares, wanting to commit this to memory for the day when he’ll be alone, when he’ll need to remember how beautiful John was, how loved he was, how much they felt together.

“Temp.” John’s voice is low, warm and hungry. “Temp. Please come back to me.”

 

Who would have thought he could make John sound like that? Slipping out of his borrowed button-down, and letting his khakis drop to the floor, he pushes his underwear down over his erection as slowly as he can stand, knowing John’s eyes are on him. Pushing everything down, off, away, he moves toward the low table that holds their stuff, from John’s cigars to books to empty beer bottles and the tipped pile of CDs they were going through last night, looking for something to dance to. The oil is there, one of the new bottles they ordered. His choice this time. Lime.

Two steps bring him back to the edge of the cushions where he can stare down as his lover’s flushed body, trace his finger along the length of John’s hard cock. “You’re still just lying there, understand me? You feeling, me touching.”

A deep, deep sigh heaves through the older man’s body at the gentle caress of finger and the gentler caress of love words. “mmmm, Temp. I’m all for getting back to the touching.”

Thumb hooked in the tight waistband, he tugs experimentally at the white cotton that’s hiding his man’s beauty from him. “Gotta get these off. Before you bust right out of them.” John’s chuckle is delicious. “Or they melt.”

“I’m just feeling.” This is the lowest register John’s got and it makes him shiver, hearing his own words back at him. “You’re touching.”

So he does, sliding his whole hand in, feeling soft white cotton stretch over his knuckles as he covers as much of the throbbing hot shaft as possible, watching his own fingers search down to trace the ridge where smooth, velvet tip begins and circle gently, hearing his lover’s sigh of delight.

Slowly depositing the warming bottle of slick into John’s hand he reaches and starts to slide the fabric over lean hips, inch by beautiful inch, still rubbing gently, biting his lip as his hand and his lover’s erection are revealed to the cool air. The contrast makes him smile and draws a pleased grumble out of John. “Feel good?”

“Mm. Better than.” John’s eyes flutter closed and that deep voice catches as the waistband finally slips down far enough and hard manhood springs up into his hand. “Damn. Just get them off, honey. Please?” 

He could do that. But he’s not going to. Not yet. Teasing John is more fun than he expected. “Lift up, sweetheart.” he coaxes. “Lift up for me.” Muscles flex and the lean warm body he adores curves upward, just like he wanted, driving John’s erection through his barely parted lips, past his teeth, deep into his mouth. The cry of startled pleasure fills the room and he grabs for the older man’s hips with both hands, climbing onto the sofa with him, lifting him up, making him arch harder. Loving him.

Head rising and falling, lips dragging sensually up and down smooth flesh, he can feel John groaning, straining, trying to hold back. So he pulls up harder, driving his lover’s cock into his throat, cheeks hollowing as he works it, begging for the thrust, moaning softly when John gives it. The groans are spiraling upward now, out of control. The hardness in his mouth is swelling, the tip bumping in the back of his throat hot as fire. Then it breaks, all at once. John’s cries are choked off to whimpers as he surges up and comes, hard. Sweet musky cream pumps down his throat as those lean hips roll upward, all coherence lost to the sensation. 

Pulling off slow, licking long hot stripes up the vein, he milks the last spurts out onto his tongue, relearning the taste, memorizing it. Because it’s just so damned good, he lets himself have one more long, devouring suck, eyes snapping open as he feels John melting under him, relaxing completely, checking out. 

This tops any other view he’s had of John, boneless, sated, floating on afterglow. Knowing he made it happen makes it even better, and he lets John’s hips down, rubbing at the livid marks of his grip, stroking the smooth tanned skin, sitting back on his heels to watch his man climb down from the clouds.

 

He feels the thrum of wakefulness in John even as he sees those blue eyes open, still hazy and soft. “Hi there.”

“Quit grinning at me.” John’s hands move to caress his warm thighs, then slide languidly over to capture his cock and stroke, slow and loving.

“You passed out on me, John. It was gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous.” The bottle is in John’s hand and he’s popping it open, dribbling the warm, citrusy stuff over his own hand, so he can smooth it up the rigid length. Not even trying to keep his own moan inside, he can see his love’s smile at his reaction. “Come back to me.” John whispers again. “Please Temp.” The warm tug that goes along with that brings him up to his knees, gasping.

That feels so damn good he almost can’t stand it. “John?”

“mmm?”

“Roll over for me?” They’ve only done this a few times, which makes it all the sweeter when John sits up under him, hands still rubbing the oil up and down his cock, and kisses him for all he’s worth, tongue flicking. Then leans back and turns, graceful and easy, folding his arm under his head as he settles on chest and knees, presenting lean, pale cheeks.

Which he can’t help but part, grasping the smooth flesh, thumbs stroking all the way from the top of the cleft to the soft bud, which spasms as both digits sweep teasingly over it. No one else gets John this way. Ever. His lover told him that the first time he asked for it. ‘I don’t go face down for anyone’, John had said, and promptly turned onto his belly, lifting his ass. The heat that had roared through him then comes back in a blinding flash and he bends, placing a kiss on each inner curve, then on the tight rose, feeling it quiver with delight.

He can see the smile on John’s face as he pulls up and reaches down to search out the bottle of oil. It was advertised as invigorating, and that’s exactly what it is. The first time he used it on John’s cock the effects were downright amazing. And it’s been that way ever since.

The soft moan that slips out of his waiting lover’s mouth when the oil patters down onto his sensitive flesh runs through him like a fuse, straight to his cock, making it leap upward, drawn to the sound. The moan deepens, breaks open into needy gasps, when he lines up and strokes the underside of his tip up and over and around John’s hole. He could go in now. Open John up just like this. Fuck him hard and fast. But that moan, those gasps, are so sweet in his ears that he pushes his own want down, easing away, wetting his thumb in the slippery pool at John’s tailbone, then moving down the cleft, pressing firmly, feeling John shiver. Feeling him need.

The soft flesh is thick with arousal, plump and hot under his seeking thumb, and he taps the taut little muscle. Once, and then again, just to hear the sound his lover makes. It’s beyond beautiful, this whole him touching, John feeling, driving John crazy thing, and he bends to scatter kisses along the curve of the older man’s long, taut back muscles, easing his thumb in through the small opening, bending it, testing the grip.

“Deeper.” John is down in that register again. Almost subconscious. “Deeper.”

The cry that answers him as he complies, thumb pulled out, thickly oiled middle finger slid in hard, is needier than ever, and his free hand spasms on John’s tanned side, clutching as lean hips flex, push back, begging for more in a way words can’t.

He knows what John needs right now. He’s good at it, from every angle. Practice has made him perfect, even if he does say so himself. The soft shape of the older man’s prostate is trembling under his teasing finger, and he works it, gentle and firm by turns, changing pressure and position, keeping his lover guessing, unprepared, open and hungry. They’ll both get plenty of rhythm in a minute, right now it’s about making sparks fly.

Watching John’s face contort with pleasure, hearing the silken cries, feeling the warm shivers run through this beloved body, he watches for the moment, the tipping point, and when he sees it in the closed eyes, the tight jaw, he pulls his finger out and kneels up in one quick motion, taking himself in hand, guiding his tip back to the slightly stretched ring. 

Then, hands tight on John’s hips, anticipating the glory that’s seconds away, he pauses for an extra heartbeat, sharpening their mutual need, before he pulls John back, arching his spine, driving his cock deep into John’s tight heat, up and in, stretching the narrow passage, his hardness searing in, deep, to the limit.

They stay just that way for a long moment, getting back the breath that the joining knocked from their bodies, feeling every tiny movement, savoring the tension. Dipping down, he kisses the shivery spot on the back of John’s neck and feels tiny muscles clench deliciously around his shaft. 

Long slow thrusts begin, a mutual movement, one of John’s big hands braced hard on the sofa’s arm as he pushes backward. All he can do is answer that need, pulling out until his tip strains against muscle, driving in hard, adjusting with every stroke, finding that rhythm now. Slow and steady. Watching his slick red shaft slide into John’s narrow warmth, seeing the opening give when he thrusts forward and cling greedily to him as he withdraws.

It should last, he wants it to last, but they’re both too excited, too damned in love to hold back, and slow and steady gets lost in growling need and bucking hips as they rut together. And then John’s moving, both hands clutching at the solid wood of them armrest, pushing up, changing the angle, making him work harder with each thrust. Once. Twice. Three times into that tightness, the trapped head of his cock stimulated beyond his control, and he’s undone, the tension pooled in his belly exploding forward into John as he snaps his hips, jerking deep groans from his throat as he spurts uncontrollably into his lover’s body.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Temp!” His name unravels into a long cry of release as John comes on his cock, the heat clenched around him spasming, drawing on him, making his vision darken at the edges as another burst of orgasm arrows through him. Cheek pressed to John’s back, rocking their spent bodies slowly together, he gasps out the last of it, feeling John start to crumble now, his arms trembling as he relaxes, dropping them both down into the cushions, to the soft sound of rain on the roof and the warmth of perfect harmony. 

 

Neither of them thought the rain would go on quite this long. It’s been seven days now, a whole goddamned week, and not a glimpse of the sun. Not that they haven’t found things to do. They have now had sex in every room in the house, including, just yesterday, the pantry. Luckily the shelves in there are nailed right into the supports. It did take them a good twenty minutes to sweep up the big bag of rice that was too close to the edge and couldn’t withstand the motion, however.

They’ve also done all the laundry. Swept and scrubbed every floor. Cleaned the sinks and toilets. Even got so bored that they dusted. They’ve played every game and listened to every CD.

And it wasn’t so bad. Until now. Until he just walked in to their bedroom to grab a heavier sweatshirt now that it’s getting dark, and found John taking all of his own clothes out of the dresser, sorting them into piles. 

Getting ready to pack. That’s what this is. That damned folder is there too, lying on the bed next to the stack of T-shirts. The one that came sealed from whoever the hell. From the guy who made John into Hannibal.

“Gonna pack, huh?” Tugging the big gray garment over his head and down, he plops on the bed, Indian style, right on the verge of John’s stacks.

“Have to. Have to pack. I’m nowhere near wanting to, honey love. But I have to. And so do you.”

The shrug is the same one he always uses, but it hurts like hell to be using it on John. He never wanted to be standoffish with this man. Ever. “Won’t take me very long. I don’t have anything much to pack.”

“Got my sweatshirt on.” The older man growls affectionately. “Still got my oxford from Labor Day too.”

“When you said, ‘hey do you want this?’, I thought, you know…it was…maybe for keeps.” Much as he wanted that to be all flippant and grown-up, his voice cracks over that last word, and as he lifts a hand to dash the wetness from his eyes, his wrist is caught by John’s long fingers, and his lover is dropping down onto the bed beside him, leaning close, holding him tight.

“Shit, Temp. I’m so sorry I did this to you. I’m older. I should know better. But you were so damned tempting. Such a perfect package. Everything I want in a man. And so much more to come. You’re gonna be a force kiddo. You already are. But I should have behaved myself. Shouldn’t have seduced you in the shower…”

“Hey, that was amazing.” He manages, rubbing against John’s solid shoulder. “Everyone should get seduced in the shower. And I got it for my first time.”

“But now it has to end. And I knew that when it started. I just…wanted you so much.”

“It was worth it.” Looking up into John’s silver blue eyes, he whispers, “for me anyway. I learned so much about myself, about you, about love. About being someone’s lover.”

“Oh, kid. It was worth it for me too.” John is caressing him, hands running over his back and ribs and bare thighs. “Never fallen for anyone like I fell for you.” His hand is lifted and gently held to his lover’s face. “If I gave you an address, would you write? Calling me is useless, even when I’m on post. Too busy. And God knows I won’t be on post much. But if you write, I’ll answer. When I can.”

Warm kiss placed in the center of John’s big palm, he murmurs, “I’ll write. But why won’t you be on post much? You going off somewhere already? That what they sent you all that stuff for?”

“Sort of.” His kiss is returned with interest, slow and sweet on his open mouth. “it’s work product from a couple of other missions, the intel for my next op. They gave me my own team. Now I’ve just got to live up to it.”

“Get that stuff read then. Get those plans made, now that you’re the boss. Just…take care of yourself, okay?” Reaching up under John’s T-shirt, he smooths a hand over the rough raised lines on that flat midriff. “No more wounds.”

“Can’t promise you that kiddo. Wish I could.”

Sitting together, wrapped up, leaning, he whispers, “Come to me to heal them then. Can you promise me that?”

John’s kiss is answer enough, and the stacks of clothes get swept to the floor along with the folder and everything in it, by stretching legs and jerking elbows and hands getting each other naked, and packing’s going to have to take a back seat and just stay there for a while.

 

Rain is still pattering against the window when he wakes. Eyes barely open in the cool gray of morning, cheek leaned to the slope of John’s shoulder blade, he lies perfectly still, trying to pick up on what woke him. The ticks of the house are familiar, water talking in the pipes in the hallway bathroom, the window over the kitchen sink making that little creaky noise, the back door sighing with the drafts of breeze. 

The air is chilly against his face, but no part of him is uncovered, soft top sheet and his favorite woven blanket tucked securely around them. 

John’s not restless. The man is asleep, in the way that kids and puppies sleep, way out in the ether, totally relaxed. 

He’s not restless either. Pretty much plastered to John is what he is, cheek on shoulder, arm over lean ribs, up under John’s arm, hand curled right in the warm hollow between his man’s throat and the pillow, leg stretched out across hard, warm buttocks. Fucking heaven.

So what the hell…

No thing really. Not like they have anywhere to be besides the shower. And that can wait. All day, as far as he’s concerned. It’s been a while since they spent the day in bed.

Eyes slipping closed, lulled by warmth and the rhythm of the rain, muscles relaxing, he’s falling out of himself, back down into the ether with John when he hears the crack of doom. It’s actually car doors. Closing. One. Two. Three.

“FUCK!” Scrambling up, back, shaking John’s shoulder, he fights his way out of the bedclothes. People don’t just come here. Not up the track. Not on a rainy Thursday morning. Not at all. Car in the dooryard means someone who knows where here is. Someone who’s going to just walk in like they own the place. Because they do.

John’s sitting up now, drowsy still, looking fucking gorgeous in the way only he does in the morning. “Temp? What the hell are you…”

“John! Listen. Someone is here.” Eyes searching, he can’t locate even one of the pieces of clothing he was wearing when things got interesting last night.

“What?” One big hand is running through short chestnut hair. “who?”

“Three guesses.” He hisses, grabbing the blanket out of his lover’s hands and yanking it to him, off the bed, leaving John naked and still sleepily confused. Across the hall. Across the hall. That’s where he has to get. Across the hall. To the bed where he’s supposed to be. Motherfucker.

Silver blue eyes snap up to his, and they both jump when they hear the click as the front doorknob turns and then the grate of the door against the sill. “We’re dead.” Hands fisted in his blanket nightshirt, all he can do is stare helplessly at his partner. “Fucking hell, sweetheart, I’m sorry. We’re dead.”

“No.” John’s voice is quiet and controlled as he rolls out and grabs his boxers off the floor, pulling them on in one smooth motion. “No. I go out. Whoever it is has their attention on me and you get across the hall.”

“There’s no way in hell it looks like I’ve been living in that room.” He whispers softly, hearing footsteps go from the great room to the kitchen and then turn back to head down the hall toward them.

“We cleaned. Getting ready to go. We can make that play.” John is moving toward the door, resting one palm on the panel and turning the knob slowly with his other hand so nothing will protest.

“Let’s fucking hope so.”

John gives him a grin and leans to press a kiss to his lips. “We can. Be quick, kiddo. Fucking lightning.”

Kissing back, thinking it might be his last, he licks his lips as John pulls away and opens the door, stepping into the hall like he doesn’t have a worry in the world.

“Hey!” he hears. “I thought I heard someone. Damn, Mouse, it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?”

It’s them all right. Mandy in here, and, it pretty much has to be Mr. and Mrs. Smith still out in the yard somewhere. There’s a flurry of steps and a muffled giggle. Mandy must be hugging John. “Thought we’d surprise you.” that familiar female voice says. “Where’s Temp? In my room, I hope?”

 

“He’s not up?” he hears John say, with just that perfect touch of frustration. “We were up late cleaning, but he said he was getting up to do his laundry this morning.” John’s voice is getting softer, and he can hear the heels of Mandy’s boots on the bare boards where the hall runner doesn’t cover, heading back toward the front of the house. “Did you look in the back room, hon? He’s probably out there, folding.”

Boots, kitchen, moving farther. Time to get gone. When he slips open the door, bedsheet wrapped around his waist, John is heading back down the hallway toward him, hand tugging distractedly through his hair again. “Jesus kid, get a move on. Quick!”

Out, across, sheet trailing, hand on the doorknob, the motherfucking finish line, and…it won’t open. The knob turns, the panel gives a little, but…

“Fucking rain.” John snarls quietly, forcing the straining wood, biceps flexing.

“C’mon you piece of shit!” Temp moans, thumping his head against the frame. “Come on!”

Fighting the door, neither of them hear Mandy until she’s there, six feet away, smiling. “Hey! I thought…” And everything stops as she takes in what she’s seeing. Her boyfriend. Clearly naked. With the sheet from her brother’s bed tangled around his waist and trailing behind him to the open door of her brother’s room. 

Her very close to naked brother, letting go the door, turning to face her, hands up. Her boyfriend again, eyes wide and wary, shifting back toward the safety of the open door, tugging the sheet up around him, but not far enough. Not far enough to hide the marks on his shoulders and neck. The, oh god they can’t be but they are, hickeys. Like the slutty girls at school are always showing off on their throats and the back of their necks, and…other places.

The tiny sound she makes at that sight closes John’s eyes in anguish. And no one moves. No one even breathes.

“John?” The grate of the door again. “Amanda? Where are you darling? I thought you were going to get John and your friend up?” It’s Ann. And everyone moves.

Temp grabs out for John’s shoulder as the older man lifts his head and starts down the hall toward the great room. He misses, but it doesn’t matter. Mandy steps in front of her brother and stops his forward motion.

“Mouse.” He whispers dejectedly. “Mouse, I…”

Finger to her lips, tears in her eyes, Mandy puts her hand in the middle of his chest and shoves, backward, toward the open door. They can all hear that Ann’s on the move, more tapping heels, probably French and expensive this time, getting closer, almost to the corner, where if she turns her head she can’t help but see. 

And the little Mouse takes a step and shoves again, both hands this time, hard in the middle of his chest, moving John toward the door.

“Mandy honey…”

“Shut up.” The tears are on her cheeks now, but her voice is calm. Low. “Would you shut up before she hears you? Get in there and get dressed. I’ll…”

“Amanda?”

Temp grabs John and pulls him back, pressing the door shut as John’s mother steps into the opening of the hall.

They can hear her perfectly well, standing together by the panel. “Amanda? What is…”

They can hear Mandy too, and neither of them miss the cheerleader brightness she’s forcing into her tone. “The guys were still asleep, Mom. Even Johnny. But I got ‘em up. First John, then Temp.” There’s a pause there, a little gulp of air, and they exchange a pained glance. The most innocent person either of them know, a person they both love, and they’ve just about torn her heart out. “They both said give them a minute to get dressed and they’ll be out.”

Two behind the door, one in the hall, they can only wait while Ann Smith looks around. “Well at least the house is clean. Two men living alone all these weeks, I’d have expected more of a mess.”

John snorts at that and Temp pats his neck gently. Mom doesn’t know the half of it, it’s a mess she just can’t see.

“Ann?” It’s Mr. Smith now, still out on the porch. Temp can see his lover breaking now, cracking under the strain, and he grasps John’s neck, hard, holding him tight. “Ann? C’mon out here and look at this. The whole side of the porch is fixed.”

And those heels move away, and just as they’re relaxing, a small fist thumps the door. “Please hurry.” Mandy hisses and then she goes away.

“What are we going to do?” Temp says softly, right into John’s brown neck.

He can feel John gulp a little, hear the wheels turning. “Play it as it lays, honey love. Grab your stuff and get to the other bathroom, like you would if you were just getting up. Clean up. Get out there.”

“But I…”

“Don’t wait for me. Don’t wait for a moment for it to seem natural, cause you’ll be waiting in there forever for that. Don’t think. Just do. Go to the kitchen and wait for Mouse to jump into your arms. God. My poor baby.”

For a minute he doesn’t know if John’s talking about him or Mandy, but the next words are, “I never thought about how she’d find out, because I never thought she would, but this, fuck, she hates me. How can she not hate me? I sure as shit haven’t left her any room not to.” There’s such desolation there that he hugs John close, petting the short reddish hair at his nape. “She doesn’t hate you. Mandy could never hate you.” And as John nods and kisses his cheekbone gently, he hopes like hell it’s true.

 

Standing in the hall bath, dressed again in his old cargo shorts, a T, and John’s hooded West Point sweatshirt to hide his bruised neck, he waits, even though John told him not to. Waiting for a change in the cadence of the voices he can hear from the kitchen. Two high. One low. He can smell coffee too, hear the clunky old refrigerator door opening and closing. 

He heard water in the pipes too. Even after he washed up. Running back toward the other bathroom. He wants John. Needs him. A touch. A kiss. Just some tiny thing to tell him it’s all right. But he’s not going to get that, and he knows it. Squaring his shoulders, hand on the doorknob, he takes a deep breath and turns it quick, before he can back out.

Those seventeen steps to the kitchen doorway are the hardest he’s ever taken. But his lover is counting on him, so he pastes a grin on his face, thinking back to the masks he used to wear for Peggy, for school, for everyone. The masks he left behind when he came up here with John.

“Hey. That coffee smells great.” John’s parents both look up from the table as he stops at the side of the counter. “Sorry we weren’t awake. We were up pretty late last night. Packing.”

Mouse gives a gasp and does exactly what John predicted, hugging him as tight as she can. And here’s something he didn’t expect. Mr. Smith stands up and takes a step toward him, holding out a hand to shake. “Well, Templeton. Look at you. You’re like a different person, son. John give you a choice in the exercise department or…?”

“No sir, not really.” Taking gentle hold of Mandy’s waist, he kisses her cheek tenderly and presses her back. The elder John’s hand is warm and the shake firm, man to man. It feels kind of great. “It was pretty much stick with him or never see him.”

“That’s my boy all right. Plenty of people couldn’t keep up with him, son. I imagine that he’s pretty happy to find someone who made the grade.”

“I am at that.” He hears from behind him, and bites the inside of his lip. Hard. Avoiding Mandy’s eyes. Telling himself not to blush or stammer or do any of the other things that John’s proximity makes him do.

“John.” Ann’s voice now, warm and loving. The lady practically jumps to her feet in those Parisian heels and gathers her tall son into her arms like he were four years old. He really can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as John relaxes into his mother’s embrace, tucking his chin into her neck and hugging her close. “Mom.”

There’s a tiny hitch in that single word, and only he and Ann Smith hear it. Hand reaching for her son’s stubbled cheek, she tilts her head to look him in the eye. No telling what she sees there, but she pulls John back in, closer, rubbing his broad shoulders. “Everything will be fine, sweetheart.” Temp hears her whisper, a non sequitur if he ever heard one. But John seems to understand, eyes shut, nodding, bending to kiss her cheek. “Missed you, Mom. A lot.”

“I missed you too. That’s why we headed home a little early. I couldn’t stand the thought of you heading back into…all that…without getting to say good-bye.” A single tear is trailing slowly down the older woman’s cheek, and she steps back, wiping the moisture away, trying to smile, her love for her boy clear in her eyes.

It’s official. John was right. Ann Smith is an awesome Mom, the kind everyone should have. She might have some old-fashioned ideas, but she loves her kids. Would stare down Death himself for them. Has for John. And she’s going to stand by and watch him go back. Hug him and kiss him and send him back. Because she loves him.

There’s a small awkward moment where he and John are shuffling by each other, bare feet meeting on the worn linoleum, as John heads toward his father and Mandy, and Temp is left with Ann. He wants to tell her what a hell of a lady she is, how wrong he was about her, but it all just sticks in his throat when she asks, “have you enjoyed your summer with John, Templeton?”

“It’s a beautiful house, ma’am. A beautiful place. He told me about your grandfather, and…”

Another truly genuine smile lights her face. “He was a character. I wish he had lived long enough for John to remember him. They were great pals for the first two years of his life, and the last two years of old Joe’s. Kindred spirits.” A soft, manicured hand lands on his arm, squeezing gently. “I’m so glad you’ve been comfortable here. He so needed to get away. Work things out. He has, hasn’t he, Templeton? Please tell me he has. He finally let it out, I think, didn’t he?” 

“He did.”

“Was it bad?”

“Yes.” Ann crumples just a bit and he pats her hand. “I’m sorry…but…yes, it was bad.”

“But you were there for him. He could tell you. When he couldn’t have told me. Or his father.”

“Yes. I think that’s right.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And that genuine smile is for him this time, and he sees the quirk of John’s mouth, and the force of John’s personality in Ann Smith, and he grins back at her, knowing his eyes are probably sparkling with love for his man and almost not caring.

“I am sorry for all the terrible things that happened to you, Templeton. Everything you went through. No one had any idea. If we had…”

Before he can say anything, tell them there’s really nothing anyone could have done differently, John Sr. growls “We’d have done something when it mattered. Helped you.”

The man means it. He’s clearly berated himself, probably like a lot of people in town, for how he behaved, how much he avoided seeing. “I appreciate that. But at least now we’re free. All of us kids. We can go forward.”

“True enough. They all got taken in, the other kids. By one family, I was told when I called.”

John shoots him a look and asks softly, “you called, Dad?”

“I did.” John Sr. pulls back the head chair and settles himself into it. “Mandy, honey, bring that coffee over here. And some cups. Let’s sit. I’ve got something to say.”

All seated, coffee poured, the older man continues. “I wasn’t going to foster them. We’re too old for that. But I wanted to do something. Something that would matter. Give them something back, that they could take through life.”

“So?” Temp can feel his hands twisting, his stomach shivering inside him.

Even though he decided to say it, John Smith, Sr. is embarrassed. Self-conscious. It’s a fair bet that no one has ever seen the man like this in court.

“I set up a college fund for each one of them. Maturing at age eighteen.”

“All right, Daddy!” Mandy yelps, leaning to kiss his cheek.

John is smiling so wide his face must hurt.

“You…you really gave them…that’s…I can’t…” Much as he wants to go on, he really can’t. It’s too big. Too gracious. Too generous.

“It was money well spent. I figured it up so that they’ll each get fifty-thousand dollars when they’re eighteen.”

“I…don’t know what to…”

The elder John fixes him with those silver blue eyes he gave to both his children. “The only question in my mind, Templeton, is what can I do for you?”

 

All eyes on are on him, but he can’t even make a breath come out. And then he feels, hidden under the table, the sole of John’s foot rub over the top of his. And, wonder of wonders, Mandy reaches over and takes his hand. Something in chest loosens a turn or two and he finds himself speaking straight from the heart.

“I’ve always had to pretty much do things for myself, sir. Until this year, I thought, no, no, I was sure, that all everyone in the world wanted was to take care of themselves. They might give money at church, or do food drives or whatever. But when they saw a person suffering right in front of them, maybe not out loud where everyone could see, maybe quietly, maybe under the surface, they looked away, until it went away. But, then, you know, I met your daughter. She’s one hell of a girl, sir, you know?” 

Seeing the older man’s smile, he continues, looking down at the hand in his. “She never pretended she couldn’t see me, not once. And then there’s your son. John just…wouldn’t let me get lost…even when I tried to.” Looking up, across the table, he meets his lover’s gaze, moving his foot in return, rubbing his toes against John’s instep. “So I’d have to say you already did so much for me, sir, that I can’t even see how there’d be more. And you helped my sibs. So…”

“It bothers me to say that it took my children’s prodding for me to see what a fine young man you are Templeton. I was one of those that hoped it would just go away, and for that I’m truly sorry. I know Rutgers is paid for, Mandy told me. But I talked to Ms. Hart, son, so I know who really took care of those other children, kept them whole. That’s the kind of man that needs encouraging.”

Turning to look at John’s father, eyes asking the older man to understand, he says softly, “I didn’t do it cause I thought I’d get some kind of reward at the end.”

John, Sr. is leaning forward now, and the look in his eyes is the same one John, Jr. gets when the jokes are over. “That’s my point, Templeton. That’s just you. And whatever I can do to help foster that kind of person in the world, I‘m going to do it.”

His eyes are prickling, there at the back. It only makes sense that two fine people like John and Mandy ought to have come from two fine people, and he wants to say that he was wrong too. He assumed, just as much; he shouldn’t have. But that won’t come out, so he just says, “okay.”, and grins like an idiot while Mr. Smith claps him on the shoulder and says, “well, let’s get some breakfast on the table then, and get to the details.”

It’s not until a lot later, when he and John are pretending to re-make John’s bed so that they can supposedly share it just for tonight, Mandy having taken over her room, that he realizes exactly what he’s been given. It’s freedom. The thing he always wanted. He’s got a foundation now, a stepping off place for the rest of what’s coming. 

Savoring that thought, he doesn’t realize that he’s standing there in his boxers, hugging a half-cased pillow to his belly, staring into white cotton, until he feels the pillow’s big brother, wielded by a grinning John, smack across his ass.

“What’re you thinking about?” John whispers softly, taking the pillow and casing it with a quick jerk, tossing it and the other onto the bed.

“Would it be awful if I said I was ready?” Turning, he runs a warm hand up under the soft cotton of John’s green Army T until he can circle a nipple, cover John’s heart, rub gently.

His lover’s chin falls just a touch before he can stop it, but then lifts again, mischief in those silver blue orbs. “Since I love you ready, not at all.” Then warm arms envelop him and hips meet his and they’re dancing. Slow. Touching everywhere. To a rhythm that’s theirs alone. “No it wouldn’t be awful.” He hears in his ear, just before John’s tongue touches, laves. “It would be great. You’re gonna set it on fire kiddo. Whatever it is. I know it.”

Leaning in, relaxing, listening to John breathe, the only thing undone nips at him. “We’ve got to talk to Mandy.”

A heavy sigh. John stops moving. “Yeah. I know. In the morning. We will.”

 

A big warm hand gently cupping his bare calf wakes him in the early half-light.

“Not raining.” John murmurs, caressing down, fingers dipping between his toes and rubbing, bending his foot. Just like he did last night. Neither of them had been able to drop off, both of them tossing around, until John had pinned him flat and gone down on him, bringing him to climax effortlessly, throat working. Then very gently uncurled his toes, kissed his thighs, settled him back into the bed to sleep. 

Where he’d slipped down, tugged his man up over him, and guided that huge hard cock into his own mouth, inviting John’s thrust, feeling his lover’s lean ass tremble as he fingered the soft plump bud. Where he’d made John come, hard, and swallowed the cream.

“Run with me?” Dragging himself out of the memory, he gives a sleepy smile, a nod, and gets his running shorts right in the face.

It’s cool out, and he’s glad he put on the long-sleeved T-shirt as they stretch, feeling the sun start to crack the edge of the sea. Staring out at it, seeing the warm orange light swell, he bounces on his toes, waiting the extra minute John needs to warm up his abs, feeling the touch on his shoulder, turning then, starting into a trot.

They go slow for a good hundred yards along the shingle, bare feet churning up the cool sand in unison. John begins to lengthen his stride, pushing into the ground-eating lope that was so hard for him to learn when John first brought him out here. It’s easy now. It’s fucking glorious, feeling his muscles flex, his skin start to sweat, his body work, every part compatible with every other part. 

They pass the five mile mark, and he glances over to see if they’re going further. John nods, tilting his head to the left and they push up the path into the deeper sand, running the dunes for another mile, pacing each other. It’s damned hard work, and his thighs and calves are yelling by the time they take the big loop and head back down to the flat, tiny waves lapping over their feet. John’s in the zone, moving like the thoroughbred he is, shoulders square, strides long and easy. Temp doesn’t have to read his lover’s mind to know that John’s working on what he’s going to say to Mandy. That’s what John does when he runs. He thinks.

The pile of driftwood that marks one mile is coming up on their right when John starts to reel it in, slowing it down and stretching it out. The sun’s well up now, and both of them peel off their soaked shirts, letting the ocean breeze dry the sweat on their backs. 

They’re no more than jogging at five hundred yards, slowing even more as they reach three hundred, and he’s gone four or five strides past when he realizes that John’s not beside him anymore. John’s stopped, hands on hips, staring down the beach. There’s someone there, kicking along through the water. And just like Mandy did yesterday, Temp puts a hand on John and pushes, nudging him down the wet sand to where his little sister is waiting.

The kid looks a little lost, sweats pushed up to her knees, wearing John’s big fleece anorak, watching them get closer. Temp can feel the hesitation in his love, but to the older man’s credit, he’s not backing away, he’s stepping up, and it isn’t long before they’re there, right at Mandy’s side, and they can both see the tears slipping down her face.

“Mouse?” John takes a deep, deep breath. “Mouse, honey, I’m so…I don’t know what to say to you. I love you so much, sistergirl.”

The waterworks are really going now, and Mandy’s swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of John’s jacket and holding up her hand, almost like she’s trying to tuck the words back into his mouth. “I’ll understand if you can’t love me back anymore, kiddo. I did a shitty thing to you. I didn’t mean to steal him…I really… it just…happened. No one planned it. No one meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” Mandy says through her tears. “It’s…I know…I know you didn’t. It’s…you didn’t trust me, Johnny. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were…like this? Why didn’t you…”

“No one knows, Mouse. No one. And I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of you not…”

“Loving you, Johnny? Like that would ever happen.”

 

John’s shoulders slump. “It’s not easy, kid. Telling anyone something like that. Least of all the bright-eyed little girl who thinks you’re some kind of god.”

Mandy’s smiling now, that sweet, open smile. “She knows you’re some kind of god, Johnny. One who knows how to make the damned yo-yo come back up, and understands that algebra shit, and can help you tie your shoes til they actually stay tied.”

John’s eyes are suspiciously damp now. “you still remember that?”

Mandy nods, reaching for her brother. “You sat there for hours with me. After I got frustrated and cried and Mom gave up.”

Temp can see in his mind’s eye a cute little Mandy Mouse sitting all forlorn, and a teenaged John, lifting her into his lap, teaching her small fingers how to follow his big ones through the loops and knots.

“They were red Keds.” John says quietly, as Mandy takes his sweaty shirt out of his hands and tucks herself into his arms.

“Yup. I loved those darned old sneakers.” Mandy says softly into John’s neck. “But I loved you more. Nothing in the world compares. The big fierce West-pointer was still the guy that tied my shoes. And the war-hero, about to be Major, who just happens to be gay, is still that guy. Always will be.”

“I’m so sorry, honey.” John’s tears are falling freely now. “I just…”

Mandy snuggles tighter in. “Please don’t ever hide from me again, Johnny. Promise? All I want is for you to be happy.”

Feeling the prickle at the back of his own eyes, Temp sends a silent little prayer to whoever that Mandy finds someone as amazing as she is, as fine and loving and good. This could have gone so, so badly. Without even knowing it, John has been afraid of disappointing his sister, the person whose opinion he so values, and the kid came through for him, showed him her heart, like the thoroughbred she is.

“And Temp makes you happy.” Mandy murmurs, “I can see that for myself. You two are a way better couple than he and I ever were. I just want you two to go easy on whoever I bring home okay? Don’t pick on him too bad.”

“Well, hon.” John has given his sister’s hair a final stroke and kissed her smooth cheek, easing her back and out of his embrace. “Couple might be a little premature.”

“What?” Mandy’s looking at both of them now, blue eyes pointedly picking out the marks they’ve left on each other’s bodies. “That’s crazy talk. You can’t be thinking you’ll just…never see each other again. Now that summer’s over. You are not thinking that. Are you?”

“Temp’s got college.” John reaches and Temp can feel that big warm hand circle his wrist, pulling him gently closer. “He needs to go. See if it’s what he thinks it is. And I’ve got a new posting. A pretty tough one. It’s my chance to prove what I can do when I’m in charge.”

“Shit.” Mandy is moving again, stepping closer to wrap an arm around each of their necks. “That’s…that’s…”

“Life.” He says, leaning to hug his former girl. “But I’m not letting him go, just so you know. I’ll write. He’ll answer. It’ll all work out.”

The hug is nice. Everybody calm now. No hurt feelings. It’s the end of one thing and the start of something new.

The creak of the big wooden door to the porch, up at the house above them, makes them all sigh. “Hey.” It’s John Sr., looking very summery in his white Bermudas. “Wondered where you all went. Breakfast. Pancakes. Bacon. Mom went kinda wild with the old griddle. And I made mimosas. Hungry?”

“Be there in a minute, Dad.” John answers for all of them, giving them one more moment of pure togetherness.

“You should tell them.” Mandy is looking up at her brother, hand tight on his neck. “They both love you as much as I do. More. All mom could talk about was whether you were getting better.”

“She asked me.” Temp puts in. “If you finally got it out. Whatever it was. If you were okay.”

John’s looking uncertain again, and Temp and Mandy exchange a look. He’s done a lot today, has John. One hell of a lot. “And you said?” 

“I said you were. And she thanked me for being here for you.”

Breathing hard, John’s looking over their heads, out to sea. “I can’t. Not yet. I’m scared. I can’t.”

“Besides.” Those silver blue eyes are filled with pain now. “I doubt she’d thank you if I told her what we’ve been doing up here for three months.”

“I think you’re wrong, Johnny. I think it might be hard for them to deal with. I mean, we all know how mom likes her kids to be perfect. But I think…they might actually be prouder that you could tell them, that you trust them enough not to hide.”

“Christ, mouse. I don’t think this is the time or place. You want me to just...come out…over breakfast? And it’s not just me I’m outing, remember. It’s Temp too. I…I can’t.”

That steel is back in Mandy’s voice when she speaks again. “Fine. Okay. You just want to wait until the next mission, or job or whatever you do, kills you? Then make me have to tell them? Or make Templeton have to do it when he’s crying over your casket with its pretty flag?”

“hey.” Temp begins, seeing fresh hurt twist his man’s lips. “Hey, that was low, Mandy.”

“That was honest.” she corrects. “We almost lost you, Johnny. And we’d have been mourning someone we hardly knew. Flip it around and think, John. Wouldn’t you wonder why any one of us would keep our true selves from you? Wouldn’t you be hurt?”

Watching his lover’s face, Temp can see emotions flying across it like startled birds. Then it all stops. He sees the decision get made. “You’re right, sis.” Then John turns to him. “Not without you though. I won’t say one word that’s not all right with you.”

What the hell can he say to that? No? No, center of my universe, no, don’t tell your parents the truth about yourself. Go on hiding. So I can hide too. Does he really want to do that? Go back to pretending everything’s perfectly fine, that he’s vanilla, just like everybody else? “You weren’t lying when you said there were gonna be a lot of big decisions were you?”

John just smiles tiredly, and waits.

This is what John was trying to tell him when they were all cuddled up on the couch, in the rain. It’s just him now, making what he can make from what he has. Is there anything more important in the few things that he has than John’s love? From there, the answer is the simplest one. “Tell. If you and I are going to go forward and maybe, some day, make that commitment, we have to be whole right?”

“Right.” It’s just a whisper, a shadow of a word, and John has to clear his throat and start again. “Right. And you’re with me, both of you? All the way? Cause I don’t think I can take it if they break down. I don’t think I can live with…oh god…oh god...I…”

John’s hand is clammy when he takes it in his, gently opening the fist to clasp it, twine their fingers carefully. “Don’t borrow trouble, sweetheart. They love you. You know it. C’mon, let’s go eat.”

 

John’s going up the stairs like he’s on the way to the gallows, and when they get to the porch, Temp stops their progress with a gentle tug. “Shirt on.” He teases softly, handing over the sweated through T that his man was wearing.

“Temp…” It a mournful little sound, whatever else that goes with it muffled by damp cotton as John shoves his head through the neckhole and tugs the shirt on.

Slipping into his own shirt, he steps close, as close as he can get, and sets a hand on either of John’s broad shoulders. “Relax.” He has to repeat it, and is going on five, when the older man lets all the tension go. “You can do this. You know that right?”

That dark chestnut head dips. Yes, John knows. “Okay. Here goes.”

Mandy is swinging the door open and before anyone can really say anything else at all, they’re standing in the sunny, sweet-smelling kitchen, where John Sr. is holding Ann close, their hips pressed into the counter as they flirt, kissing.

“Oh shit. Caught in the act.” Their father is grinning as Ann smacks him with her dishtowel, but there’s a telltale hint of red to his neck. He is embarrassed, and that is going to make what John’s about to do harder than it has to be.

“Mom.” John’s voice knocks whatever silliness there was out of Ann Smith in the blink of an eye, and her hands clench around the cheery red-checked terrycloth of the kitchen set.

“John?”

“Mom? Do you love me?” All eyes are on him now, Ann’s as wide as the plates on the counter beside her.

“What? Of course I love you, John. Why would you ever ask me something like that? Of course I love you. What’s…?”

But John’s switched targets, taking another step toward the table, reaching for the laddered back of a chair, knuckles whitening. “Dad?”

“Johnny? Johnny, what is this? When have we ever given you reason to doubt us?”

“Never.” Chair pulled out, John slips into it, leaning on the table, bare feet still braced on the wooden floor, ready, Temp realizes, to run if he has to. Catching Mandy’s eye, Temp pulls out his own chair, and the kid does the same, so they can sit, flanking John, backing him up.

“Mom? Dad? Can you sit?”

An indefinable look passes between Ann and John Sr., and John’s father picks this moment to bring on the courtroom voice. “John. Michael. Smith. What is going on here? What the hell is wrong with you?”

And that’s so close to where this might actually go that Temp can see his love falter, and, under the table, he reaches for John’s leg, caresses his knee, encouraging. But John’s already answering, head up, eagle eyes right on the man he got them from. “Please, Dad? You and Mom? Sit?”

Ann moves first, tucking the towel through the handle of the oven, smoothing down the matching red-checked apron she’s wearing, making Temp smile just a bit through his fear as he sees it, thinking about those first few days he spent with John, how they joked, getting to know each other, how damned much he loves him.

Then the scrape of wood on the sandy floor, and Ann is sitting, looking, not at her firstborn, who is still watching his father, but at Temp, a question in her eyes. It’s a question he can’t answer, wouldn’t if he could. This is John’s show, and it’s going to go at his direction, or it’s not going to go at all.

The whole thing is teetering actually, on the verge of collapse. Because if John’s father won’t bend, if he won’t come over, sit down, listen to his son… “Please, Dad? Sit down?”

Ann snaps a look back at her husband, her gaze entreating. Everyone else can hear the desperation that’s creeping into John’s voice, the apprehension. His father must hear it too.

The weight of all their intense gazes finally gets John Sr. moving, albeit with reluctance. He’s not used to being pushed around. Not even by his son. He’s used to conversations that go the way he planned them, to knowing the answers before he even asks the questions. This isn’t going to be like that, and Temp can see the patriarch knows it. Dreads it.

But he still gets to the table. Pulls out his chair. Sits. And, Temp sees, with a rush of gratitude for the old man, touches his son. Only for a moment and only a bit as he goes by, but John Sr.’s hand brushes over John’s shoulder as he heads for his place.

“We’re sitting John.” The older man announces, folding his hands. “Go on, son. Tell us what you’ve got to say.”

“I’m just going to say it.” John is looking at the blue and white Formica under his hands, thumb rubbing over the pattern compulsively. “And then whatever anyone else has to say, they can say it, okay? But no says anything, at all, until I’m done.” 

Their murmurs of assent must all reach him, because he nods, once. “Okay.” John swallows, then again, fighting back God knows what, and Temp can see his lover’s hands go rigid, fingers gripping at the smooth surface of the old table. 

“Mom, Dad, I want you to know that this has nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with how you raised me. Nothing to do with anything you gave me or didn’t give me. Nothing to do with the people you are. Which is the best parents anyone could have. This is me. Only me. All me. Has always been me.” 

A deep breath, through which Temp can feel John shaking like a terrified child. “I don’t want to hide from you anymore. I love you both too much.” There’s a final little hitch, John tightening every muscle in his body, like he’s expecting a punch. “I’m gay.”

 

Dead silence. Silence so complete that he can hear the bubbles popping in each individual wine glass as the champagne in John Sr.’s mimosas settles down. His lover hasn’t moved; big hands still splayed on the tabletop, damp foggy outlines around his fingertips, taut as a drawn bow.

“John…John…”

Ann seems stuck there, mired, and John’s voice cracks a little as he asks, “Mom? Whatever you want to say, to ask, you can. I told you cause I wanted you to know. Because it’s me, Mom. It’s what I am.”

She seems about to speak, when John Sr.’s voice cracks through the silence. “I suppose we have you to thank for this? Templeton. Am I right?”

Ice cold dread rolls into the pit of his belly, and he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to think of how to respond to that…vitriol…in the old man’s voice. But he doesn’t get the chance. “Dad. Temp’s not the issue here.” John is shaking harder, hands clenched on the cool tabletop now, eyes closed, a single tear snaking down by his nose. 

Courtroom voice again, laying out the points for prosecution. “He isn’t? No wonder you wanted to get him out of town. No wonder you wanted to bring him up here. Where it’ll be safe, you said. Right. Safe for the two of you to…god, I can’t even imagine.”

“It wasn’t like that! It’s not like that.” John breaks in. “D’you remember all the lectures you gave me about sex, Dad? About love? I…”

“Clearly you didn’t listen to them, if this is…”

Temp can sense the storm breaking inside the man he loves; a lot of anger, but so much more hurt. “I did listen, damn it! And you were right. There is a difference between sex and love. Everything before Temp? That was sex. Him? This kid? Right here? Love.”

Temp can’t help but grab John’s rock hard hand and squeeze it. Tight.

John Sr. looks ill, gaze flicking to those joined hands, mouth a flat, angry line. “You can’t be serious. You’re smarter than this. Infatuation, maybe. Experimentation, maybe. But…not…”

“Why not?” John flares, lifting his head, staring down the table at his father. “Because I’m a man and he’s a man? If he were a girl would it be all right? Would you believe I could be in love then? ‘The perfect partner’. Your words, Dad. You told me I’d find the perfect partner to love. Why can’t you believe me when I say I’ve found him? My other half? Or is it you’re looking for someone to blame? Because you can’t accept you fathered a fag?”

The tension between father and son goes stratospheric at that word, and the older man’s face flushes a dull red between one heartbeat and the next. “Watch your step, John. You started this shit…”

The cool hand that falls on Temp’s wrist makes him jump, and the look in Ann Smith’s eyes makes him lose track of whatever John’s father might be going to say. “You were together when we got here, weren’t you? In John’s room.”

There’s no lying. Not now. “Yes, ma’am. We were asleep.”

Even John Sr. has gone quiet, watching Ann, waiting. Her fingertips are exploring Tag Heuer now, touching the bright steel, the shining face. “He gave you this?”

“Yes, ma’am. For my birthday, though. Not because…”

John’s mother looks up at him, and half of him wants to hug the pain out of her, and the other half of him is filled with joy at the spark he sees.

“My John doesn’t give gifts lightly. He’s like his father that way. They think about it. Planners, the both of them. And what they choose always mean so much, because it comes from the heart.” Then she’s lifting a hand, fingers dipping into the collar of the simple blouse she’s wearing, hooking out a fine silver chain.

“Jesus Christ Ann!” John Sr. is spluttering, glaring out into the middle distance, fist lashing out at the empty chair at the end of the table, knocking it back into the cabinets with a crash. “It’s not…that’s…”

“We’d known each other exactly six months when I graduated high school.” There’s something in her palm now, cradled there, cherished. “I didn’t know that, didn’t think a college boy like him had even noticed me, but he was counting, keeping track. And he came to the house, all brave and handsome.”

There’s another choked noise from John’s father, but Temp can’t look away from Ann’s luminous face, her bright eyes, sharing this memory with him.

“He gave me this.” Hand open, Ann lifts it toward him. It’s simple. Gorgeous. Expensive. The symbol for infinity; with a single tiny diamond in the center. “I told him how beautiful it was. How he shouldn’t have. How I didn’t expect a present from him. And he got all growly and told me how it just looked like something I should have. How it reminded him of me. Really cool, was what he said, I think. It was the sixties, you know.”

Temp can feel the grin fighting to get out and then their eyes meet, and it escapes him, spreading over his face. “Was my father angry? I hope to shout. Wanted me to give it back. Told me I shouldn’t have accepted it in the first place. Explained to me over and over that he didn’t give me a debut so I could slum around with a boy who had to work his way through college, even if it was Yale.”

A tiny giggle from Mandy, who is leaning on John’s shoulder, cheek pressed to his shirt, tears shining in her eyes.

“And I told him that my debut party made me feel like a princess, and I’d been waiting for the prince to show up ever since. And his coming by bus and shoe leather didn’t change a thing. He…”

“Ann. It is not the same thing. This is not like that.” The anger is still there in John Sr.’s voice, but it’s shaded with embarrassment. Clearly this story is not one he ever expected his wife to tell. Especially not like this.

John’s mother doesn’t spare her husband a glance, much less an answer. “Poppa didn’t believe me, told me it would never work. I was just blinded by some fairytale I wanted to come true. Told me not to accept when John proposed, but I did. Told me not to marry him, but I did. Even told me he wouldn’t give me away.”

Mandy’s little gasp of horror is expressive enough for all of them.

“Oh, he did. Grandpa Joe made him. But I don’t think he believed it would last. I don’t think anyone in the family did. Then Johnny was born. And we all fell in love with him. Every last one of us.”

Ann is letting the chain fall, dropping the charm back against the soft cotton of her blouse. “I’ve never taken this off. Never.” Then those cool hands are gently covering his. And John’s. Where they’re clasped tight. “No one can tell you who to love. Or how it’s going to be. You just have to join hands and walk into it together.”

The enormity of his mother’s acceptance has locked John up, Temp can feel him panting, can almost hear him processing. But he knows what he wants, what he needs to do right now, and he lets his arm lift, leans in just the tiniest amount, and breathes a whole universe more easily when Ann lets go their hands and hugs him close. “I thought you hated me.”

“I probably did. Fifty forgets twenty. Then it takes a kick in the ass to see what a rigid old lady you are.”

“oh you aren’t! You aren’t. You’re…..”

“Mom.” The table doesn’t stand a chance against a man who needs his mother. John rises, shoves it back, heedless of the rattling crockery and jangling flatware, shaking everything loose, and opens his arms. “Mom.” Everything else in the room, in the world, fades, becomes meaningless, as she goes to him and they hold each other tight.

“You are the best Mom. You know that?” John is squeezing the breath out of his mother, gulping in air, emotion getting the better of him.

Ann is squeezing just as hard, rubbing her son’s back, soothing him. “I try. I’m sorry I wasn’t. Before. Did you try to tell me? You must have. But I didn’t listen. Or I didn’t see. Or…something.”

“I didn’t try. Not to where I actually said it. Hoped you’d notice maybe, like kids do. Waited for you to ask. Then, by the time I was absolutely sure, in myself, I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“Oh John.” Ann’s soft hands have gone to smoothing the tears from her son’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry I didn’t. You wouldn’t have had to be so distant. All this time. My god, what if you had died in that awful place? What if I’d lost my baby? And you’d have died thinking we were …oh my god.”

“shh. shh…Mom. It’s ok. It didn’t happen that way. And now you know. You surprised me a little, like mouse did, I admit. But now I don’t have to try to act differently. And Temp and I don’t have to hope no one notices how we feel.”

The table moves again, pulling tension through the room. This time it’s John Sr., shoving as he gets to his feet. “You can’t possibly believe this isn’t going to matter in your life. Whatever you are, I didn’t raise an idiot. So I know you can’t be that naïve.”

John shrugs off his mother and steps around her, right into his father’s space, stopping the older man’s progress toward the outside door. “Whatever I am, Dad? Really? I’m your son.” But when he reaches, John Sr. steps back. Just enough. Just too much.

“I’m not sure I know who you are. I’m not sure you do. The only thing I am sure of is that if I stay in this kitchen bad things are going to happen.”

“Dad! Please?”

“John.” The man won’t let his own wife touch him either, but she doesn’t stop speaking, she pushes on. “You don’t mean that. Our son gave us his deepest secret, his…”

“Out of my way, Ann.” The older man’s eyes are slitted, gaze resolutely on the sandy floor, his hands fisted at his sides. “Out of my way right now.” And when she ignores him, he just walks through her, through them all, to the door, and gone.

 

Chilled, Temp turns from his silent contemplation of the dark wall, rearranging the blanket, rolling over to refocus on the darker shadow of the door, open just a crack, so it won’t make noise when John comes in. If John comes in. Melancholy sigh trapped in his throat, he reaches and pulls John’s pillow down into his arms, breathing in the comforting scents of saltwater and sweat, soap and massage oil, that mean John to him.

No one ate breakfast. He and Mandy eventually cleaned it all up and got rid of it while John and his mother were sitting on the porch, not talking, waiting for John’s father to come back from wherever he’d walked off to. 

Only he didn’t.

So then Temp did their laundry, his clothes and John’s rolling around in the machine, tangled together, while he listened to Mandy’s running story about Europe and how she’d loved it. He dried and folded, then stood in their room among the clean stacks, empty backpack in his hand, and cried for half an hour.

He hadn’t expected John’s mom to be so incredibly, awesomely, right with the situation. But he’d expected John’s dad’s reaction even less. How could you say those shitty things to someone you love? How could you hurt your own flesh and blood like that? Especially when he was telling you what was in his heart. 

And John was hurt. Badly. Enough that nothing anyone said could get more than a clipped, one-word answer out of him. Enough that when he’d tried to get close, just to rub those tense neck muscles, get John’s shoulders down from around his ears, he’d been pushed away, his man catching his hand before he could make contact, twisting free, getting loose.

So he’d retreated again. In here. Back to his slow, deliberate packing. Cried a little when he rolled up his bathing suit and tucked it into an empty spot. Cried some more when that nice borrowed button down shirt went in. Cried till he couldn’t breathe out of his nose when he was finished, looking at the empty drawers. He’d been sitting on the end of the bed, staring at his watch, thinking about life and fate and what the hell was going to happen to him, not just now, but forever. He’d been almost to the point of grabbing his gear and bolting when Mandy charged in as it was getting dark and told him that even though everyone had skipped breakfast and lunch, Mom wasn’t letting them skip dinner.

“Is your Dad back?” 

The kid’s voice had been quiet, tight with tears. “No. He’s not.”

“Will he come back, you think?”

A sniffle. “I don’t know Temp. He doesn’t get really mad, this mad, very often. Especially not at Johnny. So…” A long sigh. “I just don’t know. I can’t believe he’d let…he’d just…not come back until you guys left. I can’t imagine him hurting John like that. But I couldn’t have imagined him saying the things he did either. I shouldn’t have pushed him to tell.” Then Mandy had broken down. So he’d held her for a while, told her that she was right, it was good that John told, that he was honest. Told her that her father would come around, hoping in his heart that he was telling her a true thing.

When Mandy had herself under control they’d gone out to help with the simple dinner that Ann was preparing. Cutting lemons to put in with the whole fish in their foil packets, he’d wanted to ask Ann’s opinion, to see what she might say, to find out if he should just have Mandy take him down to Ducktrap and try to find a bus from there. To get out of the way, and let this family go back to somewhat normal.

But he hadn’t asked it, couldn’t ask it, not when she turned to him after everything was ready and hugged him tight. Not when she told him he needed to be strong for John. To be there with his arms open if the worst truly happened and John’s dad stayed away.

“Where is he anyway? My John.” Saying that out loud, even though he’d thought it a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, had made his heart ache even worse.

“Up behind the house. Clearing out a year’s worth of brush.” Ann had folded that red towel again and laid it on the counter. “Keeping his muscles working so his brain will leave him alone.”

“Will this…be alright?” he’d whispered to her. “Ever? I feel like shit. If it hadn’t been for me…”

“Templeton. Honey. If it weren’t for you, he would have gone right on being stubbornly silent. He’d have gone back to his life, into whatever war he has to fight, unhealed. Broken. Not able to tell anyone just how hurt he was. And that would have festered in him; made him, I don’t know what. But nothing good. Falling in love with you, being with you… That’s why I had to say thank you, Temp, even before I knew. I could see how much better he was as soon as I looked at him. How full of life. My own sweet son again.”

Unlooked for, a little thrill of happiness slips up his back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So stick by him. I can guarantee you this is not the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do together. Not by a long shot.”

“Probably not, huh?”

“Definitely not.”

“Should I hike up there and get him then?”

Ann’s soft smile was warm affection and a bit of shared frustration. “I wasn’t kidding when I said they’re a lot alike. He’ll come down when he’s ready.”

And John had. Dirty. Sweaty. A couple of long scratches on his arms, neck and shoulders red from sun and exertion. Just in time to shower off and eat his dinner. Over which they’d managed to have a fairly normal conversation; a rundown of their plans to get him to school and John to Georgia with time to spare. 

But as it had gotten darker out, chillier, the boom of the surf echoing up the beach as the wind rose, John had gotten quieter and quieter. Finally ditched his plate and glass in the sink and headed for the bedroom, coming back out with clean socks and his boots, his heavy sweatshirt draped over one broad shoulder. “I know he doesn’t want to be found. I know he’s not gonna thank me when I do find him. I know we’re going to fight. But I have to, Mom. I can’t leave tomorrow and not see him. I’ll never sleep thinking he…hates me.”

“John. He doesn’t…”

“Whatever, Mom.” The boots are tied, the bayonet in its sheath tucked down the outside of the right one, the way John always carries it. “Maybe he doesn’t. I really don’t know. I just have to.” 

That was right around eight o’clock. Tag Heuer tells him it’s twelve minutes after two in the morning now. And nothing.

Turning over again, nestling into his pillow, pressing his face into the softness of John’s, trying to get the fiberfill to feel like his lover’s warm, lean body, the grating sound of a footfall in the kitchen brings him upright, sitting in the middle of their bed, listening. Another footfall. The fridge opening. The shivery clink of beer bottles. He’s out of bed and pulling on his shorts before he even really thinks about what he’s doing. If John’s out there drinking himself stupid…

But he’s not. And Temp’s innate good sense stops him just as he’s about to open the outside door. Or maybe it’s the sound of the deep voice that’s answering John’s voice, out on the porch. Heart soaring, knee on the counter, pulling himself up to the window, practically tumbling into the empty sink, he can just get the angle to see down to the chairs. 

There are two shadowy forms there, side by side. Cigar smoke is floating in the salty air, the fragrance almost as soothing as the pillow he left in the bedroom, and, as he watches, a match flares, illuminating the two men, John and John, as the younger lights up the cubano in his hand. Even in the tiny moment of light, Temp can see that his love has been crying again. But at least his father is there, with him. That probably makes the tears okay. Better anyway than what John had when he left the house.

Right there, leaning in his awkward position against the screen, the cool night flowing over him, he realizes exactly what John put on the line for him. How far his beautiful man is willing to take what they have together. Feels in one white-hot flash what life will be like with John Smith. Wild, sometimes. Dangerous, certainly. Passionate, without a doubt. Full of purpose, absolutely. What could be better than that? 

Slipping down, moving toward their room, their bed, back to snuggle the pillow until John’s made his peace, he wonders if four years is enough for him to get even close to the skills he’s going to need just to keep up.

 

It’s that strange kind of pre-dawn when the door creaks open and John comes in, shutting it carefully behind him and heading for the bathroom. He doesn’t turn on the light, and Temp is treated to a lovely, filmy sort of striptease as John takes off his clothes, an erotic show where he can see the broad outlines of the older man’s body, but not the intimate, beloved, little, make that big, details. It’s beautiful. 

Lying there, slowly fisting his cock, he listens to John loose his stream into the bowl, flush, wash, brush his teeth, and finally step back into the bedroom. It’s lighter now, and all of the details are on display, so he throws the covers back, off, going for equality.

“You been up all night?” That strong, lithe body bends, reaching for the top of the sheet, dragging it and the blanket up from the floor.

“not like this.” he teases, and John smiles, slipping into his own warm space at Temp’s side, touching the silky red crown very gently. “but awake, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” John’s dark chestnut head is buried in the crook of his neck now, stubble scratching at soft skin as he lavishes kisses on Temp’s throat. “There was kind of a lot to say.”

Tender kisses move to his lips then, John turning them on their sides, hand on his ass, pulling him in, cuddling him close, wrapping him in strong safe arms.

“Is it okay?” he breathes, running his fingers through John’s soft hair, soothing down John’s corded neck, which has lost at least a little bit of its previous tension.

“Better anyway. He just wants to protect me, to make sure I know what I’m doing. He hates to see us just jump into something, and he kinda felt that that’s what happened, since he wasn’t here, he didn’t see us getting closer. We just sort of sprung it on him. I apologized for that. And he knows how men are about their dicks and their asses; he’s a lawyer for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t want me to get hurt. Or you either.”

“Me?” John’s letting him go over those knotted muscles now, even tilting his head to stretch while he rubs out the aching tissue.

“Yeah.” The word is one long sigh as John relaxes. Or at least most of John does. There’s a very hot, thick organ branding his thigh with delicious heat that only gets harder. “He told me he was sorry he said that, about it being your fault. He felt like shit about it. That’s why he didn’t come back. He was trying to stay away from us all. Talk to us now. Well, in the morning. When we’d have all calmed down.”

“I’m glad you found him.” Straining a bit to reach over, Temp snares the oil from the nightstand, uncapping it, spilling it on the point of his lover’s shoulder and letting it run down bare, tanned skin.

“Me too.” John’s moving, squirming just a little as Temp plays strong, clever fingers over his back, stroking the oil into his skin. “Ungh. Christ that feels good, honey love.”

Body responding to the tone and register of his mate’s voice, he goes with John’s unvoiced desire to roll to his back, lift his knees. The oil changes hands and he gasps against his masterful lover’s mouth as expert fingers caress gently, stretch firmly, drive him wild with skillful touches to his prostate.

Hands slipping, knees clutching, he keens with joy when John mounts him, hooking his heels in, arching to impale himself all the way.

A big, heavy palm claps over his mouth and brilliantly blue, lust blown eyes stare down into his. “Hush, honey. You have to be…oh damn…Temp…you have to be as quiet as you…”

He lets his eyes, and his hands, and his ass give John the permission he needs. Surrendering, groping, melting as John pulls out and thrusts all the way back in, his fingers gently stirring against the hard line of Temp’s jaw as he holds the cry of passion in his hand. 

The noises ricochet as they climb the curve, just like the pleasure does, from one of them to the other, added to, intensified, refined, all dross removed, spun into gold. Until the peak’s upon them and John’s climaxing, pinning him to the bed, staring into his eyes while his hand tightens, grunting deep in his chest, possessing.

Straining upward, clenching his passage tight, encouraging John’s release with those tiny whimpers he knows his man can’t resist, exhilarated beyond belief by the seductive power of being silenced, Temp explodes himself, drawing another flurry of hard, bucking thrusts from John’s hips. Until he’s lost. Until they’re both lost to everything except each other.

 

Saying goodbye sucks. It really does. It sucked yesterday when he and John hugged the family and left the beach house after lunch. It sucked when they stopped in Ducktrap and got a handshake from Charlie and a motherly kiss and a strawberry-rhubarb pie from Betsy, with the admonition to at least use forks and plates when they ate it. She even provided them in the bag.

It sucked worse every mile they drove back down the coast in the rain. It sucked when they checked into a double room at the ComfortSuites just a mile from the Rutgers campus, knowing that it would be their last night together for God knows how long. It sucked when they…no, it was actually pretty nice to sit there opposite each other on the bed, eating takeout pizza and drinking beer, laughing at all the things they’d done over the summer. 

They’d made love after that. Twice. Betsy’s pie had come into it somewhere mid-foreplay on the second round and John had eventually gathered him up off the bed and taken him to the shower, whispering in his ear all the while, reminding him of their many and various adventures with running water. In the dark, in the shower, he’d had one of the best orgasms of his life, nearly cracking the tile with his shoulder, and leaving bruises that would keep John from going shirtless for a couple of weeks.

And now it sucks again. Because it’s getting light. And anytime after eight am he can go to Campus Housing and show his driver’s license and his acceptance letter and get the key to his room. He’s in something called Quad II at the Livingston Campus. Once that’s done, it’s over. All over. He’ll unlock his door and go in his room and become a different person, a college freshman. And John will get back in his truck and get on the freeway to Columbus, Georgia and turn into Major Hannibal Smith. And the waiting will begin. 

Turning on his hip, he tugs the sheet down from John’s neck and stares at his sleeping lover, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the line of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes. The man is gorgeous. Pure hunk. All that. And everything else that’s fine and strong. The first few weeks without him are going to be absolute hell. But he does have a plan.

His paperwork indicates Pre-Law, but that was strictly because he had no idea what to put down, and he’d always done so well in Civics and History and all that shit. But when he’d been applying all over, Mr. P had specifically showed him the colleges that had ROTC, because, the counselor had said, even if you can’t get an academic, you can probably go Army. He hadn’t had to, but he’d read the blurbs about it. Here at Rutgers Freshman and Sophomores can take the classes along with whatever regular classes they have. Without any obligation to join up. That’ll probably tell him if he can make the team, physically and mentally.

He’s going to need to see his advisor right away to get in, today if possible, maybe do a little horse-trading, a little drop and add, but that can be handled. The rest of his classes are no hard pull anyway, the basic stuff, just like old North High. And when they get harder, he’ll have to get tougher. All it’s going to take is commitment, to get obsessed and stay obsessed. He can do that. It will not be the first time he’s had to. And with John at the end of the path, that will not be a problem. Not ever. Not at all.

On the way down the Thruway, in the rain, he’d briefly considered telling John what he was thinking, but then he’d thought about the possibility of seeing his man at Christmas, telling him then, showing him what he’d learned, what he was aiming at. The sex will be epic.

Under his head, Tag Heuer makes its little burring hum, the alarm going off. Telling him it’s six. Time to shower. Time to eat. Time to move on. Lifting his arm, touching his watch with a suddenly trembling hand, he starts just a little when a seemingly sleeping John locks one big hand around his wrist. “Don’t get up yet, honey love. Stay here with me for a little bit, huh? Roll over. Lay right here against me. Where I can feel you. Kay? Please?”

No answer for that but yes, and he tucks himself back into John’s arms, pressing close, putting off the future for fifteen more minutes.

 

This good-bye doesn’t suck. This fucker hurts. Like a stake through the heart. They’re standing in Templeton’s little dorm room, just looking at one another. They can’t kiss. They can’t even hold each other. Too many people in the halls. Three of whom are his new roommate and the kid’s outrageously yuppie parents, who disappeared back down the stairs after leaving a pile of expensive luggage and what appears to be a brand new television, still in its box.

“Fucking upper crust.” He growls, moving past John to toss his backpack on the striped ticking of the upper bunk. “North High all over again.”

“no.” John murmurs softly, fingers stroking unobtrusively down his wrist, pausing to circle his watch and hold on. “Dad set up that fund for you so you could use it, kid. And it’s never going to be like North High again. You’re a different person, honey love. Be him, okay? Go forward, not back.”

He can’t move, can’t take his eyes off the bed. If he does, he’ll cry like a toddler who’s lost his teddy bear. “Never retreat, huh?” he teases huskily, throat tight. “Figures some big, tough Army guy would tell me that.”

“Big tough Army guy who’s going to cry his way to the Georgia state line, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, John…I can’t…I’m gonna miss…” and then he has to shut up, because the door’s creaking further open and Junior Yuppie is there, with a fistful of clothes on padded hangers. They wait, not moving, not speaking, until he sets them down across the desk and slips back out into the hall. “I’m gonna be outed before I even unpack.” He sighs, and then both of them are laughing, leaning into each other, and then hugging each other tight, kissing slowly, deeply, finally pulling apart, saying the rest with their eyes.

“You write to me.” John orders quietly.

“Once a week. Like fucking clockwork, Major Smith, sir.”

“And if you’re gonna…I can’t ask you not to…but if you’re gonna…would you please tell me? No details. I don’t mean I want to know…”

The tiny giggle that escapes him makes John flush. “I’m fucking serious here, Temp.”

“I know.” And he does. He’s been half expecting this conversation for a couple of days. That’s what makes it so sweet that it’s finally happening. What John doesn’t know is that he has no intention of doing anything with anyone. Even if John didn’t ask him not to, he wouldn’t. He won’t. There isn’t anyone else for him. He’s well and truly hooked.

John, however, is still trying to be understanding, still giving him an out. “You’re young. And you’ll be alone. And you, my sweet boy, love sex. And things happen. Things you might not plan on happening.”

“I doubt it.” For some reason he just can’t wipe the grin off his face.

“What? Why?”

“Nothing’s going to happen, John.”

Watching him carefully, eyes bright, the older man growls, “C’mon Temp…be serious for me. Please?”

“I am.” Lifting his arm so that his wrist is right over his heart, he rubs a thumb slowly over the sparkling face of Tag Heuer, never releasing his man’s gaze. “I’m taken, you know. I’m a married man.”

Those silver blue eyes are on fire now, heating him up from the inside out. “Are you now? I don’t remember any vows.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Never fallen for anyone like I fell for you.’”

“I haven’t.” John is very still, something warm and hopeful simmering in his eyes. “And you told Mouse it would all work out.”

“I did. Cause it will. I feel that.”

“So do I, honey love. But what if…?”

Reaching to touch John’s soft full mouth, then leaning up to cover it with a tender kiss, Temp whispers, very softly, for his lover’s ears alone. “No what if, Hannibal.” John starts at bit at that and he slips a thumb over those warm lips again. “No maybe. You go be you and I’ll stay here and be me, right? Just like you said. And we’ll stay in touch. I will write you poetically pornographic letters…” John is laughing quietly against his cheek now. “…and I expect you to jerk off to them repeatedly.”

“No problem there.”

“And I expect heartfelt professions of undying love from you. From whatever continent you’re on.”

“You better jerk off to them.”

“No problem there.”

John’s lips capture his thumb, sucking for a moment and then slipping off with a soft pop and a scrape of teeth. “And I’ll see you when I can, Temp. Whenever I’m close, I’ll come to you.”

“I know you will.” With gentle fingers, he strokes over his lover’s jawline, feeling sharp stubble and soft skin, memorizing. “and I’ll screw your socks off, buddy.”

John’s growl, reverberating under his fingertips, lights up every nerve. “Come out to the truck with me, honey love. One more.”

The stake plunges into his heart again at what he needs to say, what he has to say, even though he rages against it himself. “No.”

John’s soft cry of pain drives the stake right through, nearly dropping him where he stands. It would be so easy. To find another motel. To make love to his man once more. So damned simple to put this off til tomorrow. Or the next day. So easy to have John stay. But it would be wrong.

“I love you til I die, John Smith. You know that. But no. I have to be here.” Tears fill his throat and no amount of gulping can keep them from breaking free. “And you have to go there.”

He can feel those broad shoulders he loves shaking, hear John fighting back his own emotion. “So we’re going to kiss one more time before that door opens. And that will be good-bye. Okay? You with me, John?”

His only answer is his lover’s mouth, pressing over his. His lover’s tongue, brushing gently at his lips, parting them, to delve inside, stroking and flicking. It will never be enough, and Templeton grabs at John’s hard neck, lifting himself closer, giving back everything he has…until finally it breaks, and John’s kissing his closed eyes, his cheekbones, murmuring, “look at me, love.”

Eyes slipping open, smiling through his tears, he meets that loving, silver-blue gaze. “I love you too, Templeton Peck. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

The grin on his face is pure confidence. “I don’t.” 

“Smart-ass. I’m going to leave now. Turn you loose. Go down and get in my truck and get my ass back to base. It’ll take me a day or two before I can settle in, get to my mail. There better be a letter waiting for me.” John’s arms tighten around him for a long moment and then fall away, and everything gets cold, so damned cold. 

“There will be.” He forces out, holding onto that grin while his heart ices over, shriveling in his chest. “I’ll let you know how many people ask me if I’m gay before the night’s up.”

“You let me know you’re all right.” John is fishing his keys out of the pocket of his jeans, backing toward the door.

“I will.” Fisting his hands, Templeton shoves them into the pockets of his shorts, nails digging half-moons into his palms to keep from rushing past John, slamming the door closed, begging him not to go.

The long creak announces the end of the world. John’s almost in the hall now, the sun going down for the last time. “Love you, kid. So much.”

Looking at his sneakers, which are wavering through the sea in his eyes, he whispers, “g’bye, John.” And there’s no answer, and no answer, and no answer.

And after his roommates parents have finally left, after dinner and an exchange of money and a lot of firm advice to Yuppie Junior, whose name turns out to be a totally normal Brian, and who is not as much of an asshole as he seemed, and the RA has come around and herded them to the common room for their first floor meeting, and he’s had to tell his name, and where he’s from, and when he’s gotten a widespread laugh and an appraising eye from at least three quarters of his floormates, girls and guys, with his answers to ‘tell two true things about yourself and one lie’, he sits down at the rickety desk, flips on the little lamp and puts pen to paper.

_John:_  
First thing: I miss the hell out of you.  
Second thing: I told them I was gay, and no one believed me. Go fig.  
Third thing: It’s probably not very poetic, but I wish we were in your bed right now, like that first night. You deep inside me, making me come.  
Fourth thing: I miss the hell out of you.  
Just thought you should know.  
Oh…I’m all right by the way. This is gonna work. 

_Love,  
Temp_

 

Standing in one chilly, drippy, narrow shower in the communal bathroom the next morning, listening to a bunch of guys piss and gargle Listerine and insult each other, Temp feels his eyes suddenly fill with tears, and he grabs hold of the lime-spotted pipe that supports the showerhead, pressing his mouth into his soapy bicep to muffle his sobs. This has got to be the stupidest fucking thing he’s ever done. Coming here. Thinking he could get through this. Alone.

When he’d come back up from slipping his letter to John into the mail slot down at the front desk last night, he’d found Brian with their little room of guys with red cups, all of them drinking Jack Daniels and joking, flashing the wads of cash their nervous fathers had pressed on them, teasing each other about crying mothers and calling once a week and all kinds of shit.

“Hey?” A skinny red-headed guy whose name is something different like Clancy or Clarence is waving his cup.

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t you say your name was Peck?”

“Yeah. Templeton Peck. I go by Temp, though.”

“So how come your shirt says ‘Smith’?”

Running a hand over the black block lettering on the soft Army-green front of his T, he manages to eke out a mostly nonchalant answer, even though his heart is racing. “Got ‘em handed down from a buddy of mine. He’s in the Army.”

“The guy that dropped you off, huh?” Clancy or Clarence asks. “Yeah. I saw him. Big guy. Looked like he could take on Saddam Insane all by himself.”

Everyone is listening now, watching him covertly, probably thinking about his truths from the meeting. Or maybe about his lie. So he tells another one, just a small, white one. “Yeah, man, we’ve been friends a long time. He definitely could take on the wacky Iraqi. John’s a Ranger. Airborne.” 

“That’s like fucking Special Forces huh?” This from a bulky kid who’s already losing his hair; or maybe he just shaves it down like that. “Like Green Berets? Or Navy Seals?”

Temp had wanted out of the conversation more than he wanted his next breath, and he’d been trying to find some way to shut it down. But his suite-mate, Jeff, who had informed them in the meeting that all getting to know each other exercises were stupid sociology tricks and that his IQ is 196, is into it now. “Couldn’t he get into college?” The look on Jeff’s face is sharp and snotty. North High. All over again. “Or is that how he paid for it?”

“Actually. Jeff.” He’d said quietly, holding his temper. “West Point selects you after a long, long process. You don’t pick them.”

All eyes go to Jeff. Jesus, this IS fucking high school. “And then they send you off to kill everyone who doesn’t look like you. Awesome.” That sneery tone is getting on his last nerve, and the crowd in the room is murmuring, waiting to see what’s going to happen.

He’d turned on the kid then, feeling his neck muscles bunch and his hands close up into those loose-but-ready curls that John taught him, his voice flat and chilled. “Do you even know that people in uniform put their lives on the line every day? Have you ever even thought about what they do for the country?”

Jeff had gone from sneering to superior then. “Are you going to throw the ‘noble warrior’ bullshit all over me now, Peck? Tell me how it’s a calling or some fucking thing?”

The punch had been on its way then, his hand closing, arm lifting, when Brian, of all people, had caught his wrist on the upswing and gently but firmly stopped him, turning in front of him with liquid grace, keeping the rest of the group from seeing, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on his desk.

“Fuck, Jeff.” Brian had poured Temp a quick shot of Jack and handed it over, his voice just as sneering and sarcastic. “You’re a motherfucking future corporate lawyer talking. You got nothing to say about anyone else’s calling. Fucking nobility or some shit. Lawyers are worms. I should know. My Dad’s one.”

That had gotten everyone laughing, broken some of the tension, but Jeff hadn’t been willing to lay off. Oh, no. He’d found a button, and he was going to just whale on it. Find a way to use it.

“So the part about you being an orphan? That was one of your truths, huh? Why a friend had to bring you, not your parents?” Jeff had been eyeing his backpack in the corner by his desk, all by itself in the mass of stuff that had come with Brian.

“Sure was.” And that’s all he’s going to say about that. Ever.

“That must suck, man.” Clancy or Clarence says, his eyes full of true sympathy. “I mean for real.”

“It does.” He answers, before he even thinks to hide it. “It fucking does, Clarence.”

“Clancy.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

“I won’t forget again.”

“It’s cool, Temp.”

And that slip of his armor was exactly what Jeff had been waiting for. A place to stick the knife.

“So what’re you going to do on holidays? Your only friend off saving the world for democracy. You all alone.” The words were caring, concerned. But the guy behind them was no better than a hyena. “Are you going to stay at school like the foreign kids do? I mean, you’ve got nowhere to go right? No home? No family? Not even a foster kid…”

In a moment he’s locked in that room again, his stomach empty, shivering, hearing Peggy’s footsteps come closer. And Jeff’s right about one thing, there’s no one there to hold him through the memory, to make him believe she can’t come back. He’d had to do it himself, force himself not to falter, to stand tall. 

Self-confident, bullshit grin firmly in place, the fingers of his right hand gently gripping the bright steel of Tag Heuer on his left wrist, he’d gone forward, not back. As flippantly as possible, of course. “I got plenty of places to go Jeff. You might not have any friends, I think the concept’s beyond you, but there are a lot of places I’m welcome. Give me a couple weeks around here and there’ll be more.”

The whole gang of them had laughed at that, having seen how their female fellow freshmen had behaved. And Jeff had shut up, because he’d seen it too. But Temp had known he’d made an enemy there. Come up against another person who he’d have to watch.

And that was probably why, after they’d left, after he and Brian had each gotten ready for bed and turned in, it had taken him a long time to relax, even longer to sleep. And when he’d finally gone under, he’d dreamed. Bad ones. Black ones. Peggy back. John gone. Confusing. Terrifying. Waking him at a quarter of five, afraid to go back to sleep. 

The cloud had stayed with him even when he’d put on his running gear and done his five miles. Stayed with him all the way to this goddamned shower, where at least no one will hear him cry.

“Hey man!” It’s Brian, right outside the industrial strength curtain. “It’s been like forty minutes. If you’re gonna beat off in there, Temp, could you at least speed it up? Get Miss July to go deep throat?” 

Raucous laughter greets that remark, and he can hear the slapping of high fives. Starting to smile despite himself, he shoots back, over the rush of the water, “Miss July gave up twenty minutes ago. It’s Miss September’s turn.”

A babble of catcalls and joking from the other guys, and Brian’s laughing now. “You were just too much for August, huh?” 

“She was a quitter, man. It was sad.” Rinsing down, he washes the suds from his cock and balls, trying not to think about the last person he shared a shower with. How that person was no quitter, not at all, and he splashes a handful of water in his face, washing away his streaky tears.

Brian’s voice comes back to him, low. “Seriously, Temp. You ok, man?”

The truth isn’t something he can bring himself to say to anyone, so he just slaps the shower off and reaches through the curtain for his towel, drying himself, wrapping the thin terrycloth firmly around his waist. Brian’s eyes are on his when he slides the rings back, the look in them nothing but honest friendship. 

“I’m fine, Brian.” Ducking past, heading for the safety of their room, he gets the door shut before the tears come again. And by the time Brian’s back, he’s managed to stop crying, get dressed, and get out the Registration Manual that the RAs went over last night. Time to find the fastest route through the maze, get to the ROTC table, and get the plan in motion.

 

There’s a note on the door when he gets back. A bulletin from Brian.

Temp-  
Looked for you outside after I was done, but didn’t see you.  
Me and Clancy are heading to the bookstore for supplies and shit.  
Then we were gonna hit dinner at 5 or so. If you’re back before – wait for us, k?

Bri

It’s like ten after, but he can tell they haven’t been back as soon as he opens their door and sets down his own bags of textbooks and notebooks and pens and highlighters. Brian’s crap is still strewn all over his bed and the desk and the chair. It had been pretty unbelievable this morning, watching as the kid tried on and took off three different outfits. Expensive outfits. And he’d just sort of left everything lay, like maybe the maid was going to get that for him.

Years of protective caring for his own meager possessions had him itching to fold things up, straighten them out, make sure nothing happened to them. But, like he’d told himself this morning, as long as it wasn’t on his side, Brian could clean up after himself.

Sitting down in the desk chair, he opens the bookstore bag and pulls out the little firesafe he bought. It’s only about eight inches square, but it’ll hold his bankbook, all the state paperwork on him from that night at Saint John the Divine forward, the piles of letters he intends to get from John, and Tag Heuer. He made the salesgirl at the store unlock it and open it up, just so he could be sure that the token of John’s love, and its box with the extra links, would fit. Not that he intends to ever let it leave his arm or anything, but you never know.

He’s just entering the withdrawal that he made to buy all this stuff into the small lines in the bankbook register, when he hears Brian’s key in the door. Difficult as it is, he manages not to clutch everything to him, hide it, defend it. The two of them started off really well, it was almost like being back with Ran again, and he doesn’t want to do anything to fuck that up.

“Hey, brother.” Brian sings out. “Give a guy a hand, huh?” The boy is buried in bags, one on his shoulder with his North Face backpack, and two or three in each hand.

“Fucking Christ, Brian.” Lifting the bags free, setting them on the carpet, Temp unloads him. “Did you buy the whole fucking store?” Their floormate is right behind him, only one bag, each of them bulging with textbooks, in each hand. “Hey, Clancy, s’up?”

“Nothing, Temp. I think Brian bought one of every ‘Rutgers’ thing they had. The girl in that department had a serious rack.”

“C’mon, man.” Brian is dumping his pack on the bed, spewing out his class schedule, his day-timer, pens, change, sticks of gum and a pile of other things. “She had more than tits, Clancy. She had brains.”

The tall redhead just snorts at that. “Cause she said, ‘oh, I think you’re a size LARGE’. Fuck, Bri. For real.”

“Fuck. Yes. Exactly my intention.” Smiling, Brian comes up with a sticky note, on which is… “I got her digits. Her name is ‘Mia’ by the way, and she will be mine.”

He can’t help but laugh, dropping back into his chair, watching Brian run a hand through his short, blonde hair. “You’re a piece of work, brother.”

Brian’s grin tells him that he liked hearing that last word, as much as Temp liked saying it. “I could score you her roommate.” Brian offers. “Fuck, Temp. If you’d been there she’d never have even noticed me, and you goddamn well know it.”

Lifting his hand, Temp makes a ‘yap, yap’ with his fingers and then flips Brian off. “Don’t hate me cause I’m beautiful.”

The grin just gets wider. “Hell, no. I’m just glad I’m your roomie. Secures my place as your wingman, getting all the ones that slide off you to the floor.”

Temp just shakes his head, bursting into laughter as Clancy says plaintively, “do I get to be a wingman too, guys? I mean, c’mon. I need all the help I can get.”

“Getcher shit and let’s go to dinner.” Brian’s searching through the mess on his bed to nab his class schedule. “Both of you bring your schedule and a map and let’s see what we got.”

 

Trays of starchy, kid-friendly, mostly-eaten dining-hall food sitting in front of them, the three of them unfold the crisp, white official pages of their schedules. Brian’s and Clancy’s are pristine, just like they came from the laser printer. His, however.

“Jesus, Temp.” Brian is taking in all the arrows and lines and signatures. “What the fuck did you do? Change every class?”

He’d almost had to. After getting up the nerve to add himself to the end of the almost non-existent line at the ROTC table, he’d come up to a short, bullet-headed man that still managed to remind him of John in a strictly non-sexual way.

“Captain Hines.” A hard hand had been extended for him to shake. “And you are?”

“Templeton Peck, sir.”

Stepping back, arms folded over his crisply perfect camo, the older man had asked, “What can we do for you, Mr. Peck?”

“I…I think I’d like to take some ROTC, sir. The thing in the registration book said that people could still get in up until classes start. If there was room. So…I came to see if there was.”

Captain Hines had looked him over then. His height. His build. And then zeroed in on his eyes, weighing, judging.

“ROTC is not for people who only think they might like it, Mr. Peck. I do not qualify people for my classes unless they are able to commit. Are you able to commit?”

“Yes, sir.” Hines hadn’t believed him, he’d been able to see that clearly. “I…could we talk in private? I have this plan, and, I think maybe you could tell me if I can do it.”

Taking the schedule from his nerveless hand, Hines had held it up and peered at it, green eyes hard as diamonds. “Pre-Law. Well, son, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t think…”

“Please, Captain. I seriously want to do this. I need to. And if you’d just listen to me…”

He still didn’t know what had made the Captain change his mind, hand him back his sheet and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of line and over to a couple of chairs, set up at a small desk that was stacked with those same green file folders that had arrived at the beach house for John.

“So. You need ROTC, Mr. Peck?” Hines had asked, folding his hands in front of him on the desk after they were seated. “Want to explain that?”

Taking a deep breath, he’d started into the story. The story he thought up on his run this morning, knowing that whoever he talked to here would need something for an explanation. “I’m on scholarship, Captain. Academic.”

“Full ride. I saw that on your schedule there. You afraid you can’t hack it, son? Think ROTC’s going to be easier?”

“No, sir.” He’d answered honestly. “Not at all. I think it’s going to be harder.”

Hines had smiled at that, and Temp had seen the man’s pride in his place, in his unit, shine through. And that was good, very good, because Temp intended to make that unit better once he was a part of it. Not just better, the best.

“I met a person over the summer, sir. A very fine person.” And before he knew it, the story dropped away and he was speaking from the heart, telling Hines exactly how he felt. “That person changed my life. Made me realize that there’s something bigger than making a ton of money, or being on TV, or anything. There’s duty and honor and courage, sir. Making the world a better place.”

“A veteran?”

“No, sir. Currently in uniform, sir. An Airborne Ranger.”

“That’s aiming awfully high, Mr. Peck.” The Captain had sat forward even farther, looking him deep in the eye. “Do you even know how hard that is, son, what you’re shooting for?”

“Yes, sir. He told me a little bit. Showed me a few things. Hand to hand and stuff. I can do it, Captain Hines, sir. I *know* I can.”

“Whoever this was lit a fire in your belly, for sure.”

Thinking of all the times that John had done that very thing, literally and figuratively, he’d put that sincerity into his voice and his eyes and come back with, “He did, sir. And I intend to make him proud of me. All I need is you to give me a shot. Let me in your class. Sign the paper. Sir.”

 

And, wonder of wonders, Captain Hines had snapped the pen out of his uniform pocket, smoothed the schedule out on the baize-covered desktop, and started writing, filling out the class name, the class number, and the instructor, and then signing and dating it, big as life.

“Thank you, Captain Hines, sir. Thanks. Really.”

The older man had just looked at him, pulling over a wire-bound book and flipping it open, added his name, ‘Templeton Peck’, to the class list in neat notation, changing the number of students at the bottom of the page just as neatly. “Don’t thank me, son. You do what you just told me you were going to do. Get it?”

“I get it.” The smile on his face had been stretching from one ear to the other by that time. “I will.”

Eyes on his schedule, the Captain had breathed out, “Pre-law. What’re you going to change that to, Peck?”

“No idea, sir.” He’d taken the schedule back then, looking down at the fresh ink.

“Let me suggest a couple then. Technical degrees always look good on a Lieutenant. Engineering. Math. If you want something hands-on, I have a couple of Juniors and Seniors you could talk to that are getting their bachelors in Engineering Technology. Taking the blueprints and making things that actually work from them.”

“That would be amazing, sir.”

Hines had stood and waved over a young man with ‘Donaldson’ stitched in black over his pocket. “Mr. Donaldson, this is Mr. Peck. He’s going to be joining us in ROTC this year. Have a seat with Mr. Peck and bring him up to speed on your major. Help him decide what to drop and add.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Donaldson had saluted, and then shaken his hand, eyes appraising. “Let me get a course book and we’ll get moving stuff around.”

Brian’s still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“Umm, yeah. I did. I decided to give ROTC a shot.”

“Holy crap.” Clancy is staring at him, eyes alight. “My parents would kill me if I…oh…hey…sorry, Temp. I…”

“It’s cool.” He grins at his red-headed friend. “I don’t have to worry about that. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“and this is what you want?” Brian’s voice is gentle, his eyes looking deep.

“Yeah, man. It is.”

Brian nods once, and looks back at the full paper. “So what’s your major now, Temp? And what the fuck is ‘MS 101 – Preparedness’? That goes on for four fucking hours every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon?”

“That’s the ROTC class. And my major is going to be Engineering Technology. I couldn’t get an appointment with an advisor today, I could only drop and add. So it’s not changed yet, but it will be by tomorrow night, and….”

“And you have zero classes with us now.” Clancy is charting their schedules very carefully on the map that he has spread out in front of them. “We might get to have lunch together on Wednesday and Friday. But fuck, Temp, you’re halfway across campus most of the time.”

When he looks at it this way, him in blue ink, Brian in black and Clancy in red, it looks a hell of lot harder. The blue ink moves all over. “Yeah, well…”

“We’ll help you.” Brian says. “I left my Camaro in storage in the city. But we can go get it. Keep it here. Cut down on your travel time.”

A warm pang shoots through him. “You’d do that?”

“Fuck yes.” Brian is waving it off, finishing his last glass of Coke with a slurp. 

“Won’t your parents mind?”

“Dad was still trying to get me to bring it when we left, Temp. It’s kinda of like, he gave it to me cause it would look weird if a guy his age was driving it, you know? He loves to see me using the damned thing.”

“Cool.”

“How’s tomorrow for you? We could take the early train in.”

“Fucking awesome. I got nothing until my first History class on Thursday.”

“Shit guys!” Clancy moans, flipping through his calendar. “I can’t. I’ve got all kinds of stuff to do tomorrow for my ‘Future Accountant’ and my Honors College shit.”

Exchanging a perfectly attuned glance, he realizes that Brian wasn’t including Clancy in this plan any more than he was, and he lets Brian take it, nodding at appropriate moments.

“Aw, dude. No big deal, though. We’re just going to get the car and head back. Maybe have lunch or something. Then we can go out tomorrow night. Unless you got something then, too?”

“Honors College mixer. Six to eight pm.” Clancy is flipping pages. “Saturday’s still free.”

“Bar night!” Brian is reaching over, clapping Clancy on the shoulder. “Our first night as wingmen! Dude!” And the fistbumps begin.

 

They try to get to sleep early, turning out the light just after ten, but the banging and crashing and loud music of a residence hall when there are no classes to go to tomorrow makes it damn near impossible. It’s not made any easier by the loneliness that’s gripping him again as he lies flat in his top bunk, pillow clutched across his chest, tears running down into his ears.

Finally, late, the noise down to what sounds like a single room upstairs, hoping by the even respiration that Brian’s asleep, he slips out of bed and goes to his dresser, hunting in the very back of the top drawer, feeling around for the soft pile of a shirt John doesn’t know he has. John’s favorite heather gray tee that he stripped off his man at ComfortSuites a couple of nights ago, right before John slicked him up and took him to heaven. 

He’d grabbed it the next morning, wrapping it up in own blue one, pushing it down into his bag, thinking even as he did it how silly it was. Keeping it like a girl keeps a stupid corsage. Trying to hold a memory. 

Hidden there in the dresser since he’d unpacked his backpack that first day, he’d gotten a tiny whiff of it each time he’d had to get clean underwear, or a pair of socks. A little hit of John to keep him going. But he needs it all now. He doesn’t even care if the damned thing makes him cry harder for awhile. If he wrings the last of John’s scent out of it with his fists. With it under his head, he won’t feel so lost. Maybe he’ll even get to sleep, dream of John, feel loved.

Heading back to the end of the beds with the shirt draped over his shoulder, the warmth of his man’s smells filling his nose and his chest, he doesn’t see Brian’s open eyes watching him, doesn’t hear his roomie roll onto his back, doesn’t know Brian is waiting for him to get himself and his prize settled. Until the other boy asks, “did you want to talk about it, Temp?”

Blood freezing, he brings both hands to his mouth, holding his shame inside. God. Brian heard him. Brian SAW him. Brian’s awake. How can this go anywhere good?

“Temp?”

Voice flat, as dead as he can get it, he asks, “Talk about what?”

“Whatever you just got out of your drawer. Why you tried to punch Jeff. Why you switched your major. Why you touch your watch all the time. Why you cried in your sleep last night. Why you’re crying now.”

The silence lengthens and deepens and cools around them, him weeping as silently as he can into John’s shirt, Brian waiting, patient and concerned. And then one of them can’t take the quiet anymore. “C’mon, Temp. I saw you with him, remember? If you weren’t seconds away from kissing the fuck out of him, sweetie, I’ll eat my own shorts. Did the bastard dump you?”

Overwhelmed by pain and loss and the absolute fury that Brian would even think something like that about John, he snaps, “No! God, no. He just...he had to go. Back to the Army. To his life. And I miss him. And I need him. And I love him.” Babbling now, words running out of his mouth like lava, he can hear himself getting louder and more incoherent with every syllable. 

“He’s everything to me, Brian. Everything. My heart’s fucking breaking in half without him. And I told him to go. Told him we couldn’t have just one more. God I wanted to just grab him and pull him down on the floor and hold him forever and… I know I’m a b..baby and I’m cuddling his goddamned sh..sh..shirt. And I can’t h..help it! I..just…i…j..just…”

The warm fingers that gently brush his shoulder, then move to rub his bare arm make him jump and then cry all the harder. Brian’s voice is low, right there by his sweaty forehead, soothing and calm. “Shhhhhh. Hey, brother. Shhhhh. It’s ok. Everything’s gonna be ok, Temp. S’fine. If his shirt makes you feel better, that’s cool.” A sob cracks out of him then, and Brian’s hand moves to his back, circling over tense muscles. “You go ahead and cry. I’ll stay right here with you. Kay?”

And it must be, because while the tears blind him and the sobs wrack him, that hand never stops moving. Not once.

Until he’s drained, snuffling, hiccupping softly, the gray cotton wet and sticking to his cheek.

“Better?” Brian’s lifting the dry corner of John’s shirt very carefully, reverently, sponging Temp’s fiery hot face with it, sopping up the last of the salty flood.

Mouth stuck shut, he can only nod and gulp, wishing he knew how to say thank you, how to tell this kid he hardly knows what a goddamn relief it is not to ache any more, not to be alone.

“I’m gonna go get you a cold washcloth.” And Brian’s turning away, reaching for the handle of the closet door. 

The light from the hall is sharp and painful when Brian snaps the deadbolt back and swings the creaky wood open, and he puts a hand over his sore eyes and flops onto his back, trying to breathe deep. He can hear his roommate walking quietly down the hall, hear the slow flap of the bathroom door, even hear the water running.

Then the door again, pushed open, the light spilling over him, red through his swollen eyelids. Then the soft, thick cloth in his hand, cold and soothing. “Here you go.”

And as he lays it over his hot, aching face, hissing a bit at the chill, he hears Brian open the little fridge that he brought with him and installed under the end of his desk. “I’m getting a soda, man. Want one?”  
His damned mouth still won’t cooperate until he takes the cloth and wipes it over his sticky lips. Which feels really, really good. “yeah.” It’s a croak, but it’s there, and he swallows, wets his lips with the cloth and tries again. “Yeah.”

There’s the crinkle of cold aluminum and then Brian is nudging his shoulder with the can. “You ready to sit up?”

Miraculously, he is. One hand gripping the cheap, varnished wood of the headboard, the other still holding his washcloth, he pulls himself up, bending forward, stretching out the stiffness in his spine. Then ooches backward, slowly, waiting for his sweaty back to make contact with the coolness of the plastered wall. A long sigh escapes him as he leans into the welcome solidity and lets himself relax again, sticking his bare feet out over the edge, draping the cloth over his hand to let the air cool it again before pressing it back to his burning eyes.

“Hey.” The can is smacking into the outside of his kneecap this time. “Little help here?”

He can’t see what it is in the dark, but he takes it, lifting the soda to his mouth, his tongue and throat already begging for the chilly sweetness. The first sip is an explosion on his palate and he’s swallowed half of it before he even knows what he’s drinking. It’s 7-Up, and it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“Here. Grab this so I don’t spill it on your bed.” Brian’s hand is waving another can at him. Which he takes, letting the cloth fall into his lap. And his roommate is climbing up beside him, moving to lean on the wall to his left, sliding his hand back down Temp’s arm to get his drink. “Thanks.”

“No man.” He begins, plucking up the washcloth, spinning it around on his finger. “Thank you. Sincerely, Bri.”

“Welcome.” 

Silence falls for a moment as they both take a slug of soda and think their own thoughts.

“So I guess the whole ‘gay’ thing is the truth then? As opposed to ‘I don’t have a birthday’.”

“Actually? All three are true. I got totally fucked up when everybody laughed at me outing myself.”

Brian’s long sigh echoes through the small room. “Did you say it cause you thought I was gonna start passing the rumor, brother?”

There’s no way he’s ever going to say anything untrue to Brian, ever again, even if it hurts. “Yup.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Well…I know that now.” Draining the 7-Up, Temp tosses the empty in the general direction of the trashcan by the closet, listening to it clatter.

“You missed.”

“Fuck. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Tell? Shit, Temp. Who you are belongs to you. And who you choose to share it with. And my parents are like two of the biggest patrons of the arts in New York. You would not believe the things I’ve seen in that apartment. All kinds of people who’d be destroyed if their true lives got out. Who are some of the coolest people I’ve ever met. They never held it against me that I was straight, so… And there isn’t enough love in this world that any of it ought to be outlawed, you know?”

Brian’s empty can takes the flight this time, bouncing off the closet door with a clink, skittering across the flat pile of the carpet, while Temp fight the wetness in his eyes again, hand convulsing around the cloth.

“You missed, asshole.” His voice is shaky, and Brian reaches to grip his neck with gentle force.

“Yeah. Fucking things don’t fly worth a shit in a handbag.”

He snorts, and Brian laughs, and then he’s saying, “I met John’s sister first…”

 

They’re leaning on each other’s shoulders, and Brian is telling him about the loss of his virginity with a friend’s older sister, when he realizes that he can see the windows, and the door and damn near everything.

“So she was like, ‘are you always this quick?’ and I was like ‘ummmmm…..’”

“Hey.” He straightens up a touch, elbowing his roomie gently in the ribs. “It’s morning.”

“Damned if it ain’t.” Brian is stretching, yawning, digging a hand through his hair. “and we pulled our first all-nighter. I say this calls for hot showers, huge cups of designer coffee on the train, and a fucking day-long rave through Manhattan. Call it brother. You ready to rock?”

Feeling lighter and happier than he has since he kissed John and promised to write, he turns to Brian, shoves his shoulder and gives him that bullshit grin. “The question is, is Manhattan ready?”

 

Long shadows are falling across the raked dirt of the quad in front of the Ranger Battalion headquarters when Hannibal finally gets out of his tiny office. He got on post just after dawn on Tuesday. After driving straight through from New Jersey. Fueled by coffee, cigars and a couple of Hershey bars. Not a bad trip, just the worst of his life. 

He’d managed to stop crying somewhere in Virginia, only to start up again just over the South Carolina line when the radio station he was listening to began a love song call-in show, inviting people to dedicate and tell their love story. Stupid fucking ‘Unchained Melody’ had been the first fucking song request and he’d lost it, thinking of holding Temp close while they danced out on the screened porch in the soft dark of Maine nights, stroking the kid’s back, running a finger down into tight, white boxer briefs, the moist cleft and tender bud so ready for his touch. Between the tears and the hard-on and the lit cigar, he’d nearly driven into a bridge abutment before he could punch the button and get rid of Bobby Hatfield and his damned heart-breaking voice.

Even the terse bulletins out of the anchor’s mouth on the all-news channel he’d switched to couldn’t knock the thoughts of his boy out of his head. Templeton grinning at him, poking, egging him on as they sparred, then stealing kisses between the punches. Templeton in the ocean, long arms churning as he swam closer, those soft dirty-blonde curls dark with water, brushed back, displaying the elegant structure of his face. Templeton beneath him, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, arms stretched out on the bed above his head, defenseless, mouth open, soft little cries escaping him as each hard thrust took him further toward the seamless join they only made together.

“Miss you.” he’d growled, his voice loud in the loneliness of his truck, speaking to the boy his mind’s eye could see so clearly. “Need you. Why the fuck did I tell you no? What the fuck was I thinking? Need you here with me.” Even as he’d said it, he’d known that no matter how much it hurt, no matter if it shattered his heart with loss, the kid had to be free, had to grow, had to become. 

And what a man the kid was going to be. What a man he already was; intuiting how much it meant to see that the token never left his wrist; eager for the bond that came with it, knowing what he’d wanted so badly to hear before he left for who knows how long – ‘I’m a married man.’.

Temp had looked so damned beautiful and young and hopeful when he said it, but if there’s anything he knows it’s that separation can tear two people apart, even two people who love each other, especially when there’s such a difference in age and circumstance. Everything in him is adamant that it will not happen. Not to him. Not again.

“Hey hot shot.”

That voice is so warm and Louisiana smooth that he grins just hearing it, and stops on the gravel path to wait for the man that’s heading toward him with that slow, ambling, long-legged gait.

“That’s Major hot shot.” The armful of paperwork he brought with him to read makes their handshake awkward and the backslapping hug that they surge into when their palms touch even more difficult, but neither of them back away for a long, long moment. “Respectfully, General Morrison, sir.”

Russ cuffs the back of his head as they part, an old, old gesture of pure affection. “Major Hannibal Smith. Who’d a thought it when you were just a lowly shavetail.”

“You would have. You did.”

The older man is smiling now, too. “Yeah. I sure did. And I was right. Not topping out with the leaf, either. You’re going nowhere but up. Leading your own team. Running your own ops.” 

Russ is eyeing him, and he can feel it, all of his commander’s not-inconsiderable focus zeroing in on the worst of the wounds, picking up on the little bit of fatigue, the hint of pain. The man could always read him in a heartbeat. “You okay John?” Those blue eyes are still sharp, but the tenderness is there, the feeling they have never let show. 

“Yeah.” Shoulders squared, he meets Russ’ eyes. “I’m ready to go into the shit tomorrow, boss. I think these guys you gave me are gonna be a great team. We’re gonna be good for you, Rusty. Damn good. It’s….”

“That’s not what I meant, kiddo.” His commander’s fond gaze is still focused, seeing into him. Deep. “And you know it.”

That solid chin jerks and he gets under motion, just like he always has for this man. “My office. Double time. Move out, soldier.”

 

Russ’ offices get bigger with each promotion, and the one he has now, as a one-star General, is pretty damn fine. As they walk in and Rusty shuts the door quietly behind them, John can see that his boss has moved up to having a couch along with the two chairs in front of his desk, and he drops the files on the end cushion, then settling into the closer of the big leather chairs. Generals also rate a refrigerator, from which Russ is removing two icy bottles of Kirin. 

Much as he wants a drink, and to hang out and talk, he can’t help but think about the beer and the flying visits and the three and a half years that Russ was on Far East station. While he was busy chasing drug cartels and Columbian insurgents and Haitian rebels and whatever the fuck.

Such was the life of a Colonel, Russ had told him, their last night together before he shipped for Pearl and then on to Tokyo. It wouldn’t be so long, Russ had said. We can still be together, Russ had said. 

And then when he’d managed to get himself to Okinawa for a weekend, pushing the envelope with a CO that hadn’t wanted to give him the leave anyway, Russ had taken him to a nice quiet bar and told him, very carefully and very clearly, that this was the end.

“What Russ?! What?” He’d been frantic, overtired and undersexed, just wanting his lover’s body against his, inside his.

But Russ hadn’t been his lover anymore. He’d been…colder…distant…unreachable. “You have to understand, John. I love you, kiddo, I do…..”

“Bullshit! If you still felt anything at all you’d have told me before I fucking got on a C-30 for twelve fucking hours, Rusty! Fuck!” He’d wanted to run, made to get up, but the older man had caught his wrist in an iron grip.

“Settle down. You settle the fuck down right now, Lieutenant. And that’s a goddamned order.”

And that had told him everything he needed to know right there. “I’m an embarrassment now, aren’t I?” Yanking his hand away, he’d leaned back in his chair and slugged down a good half of the single-malt Scotch that Russ had ordered for them both. “Jesus fucking Christ. Damned if I didn’t think you’d found someone younger, or sweeter, or at least within the goddamned time zone. But that’s not it, is it? No. You left the field and you left me, and came to where the other half lives. And I’m…over. Your youthful indiscretion.”

He’d known he was being a bitter, snotty little shit, but he hadn’t cared. Not even for the pained look on Russ’ face, the sorrow in those blue eyes.

“Johnny. Kiddo.” He’d waited. Waited to see if Russ would say it, his love name, his bed name. Say ‘baby’ in that silky drawl that always falls out of him, the way he always says it when he’s strung out and needy, and then this would be over and they could go to the hotel and fuck like they should be doing.

“You need to calm down and listen to me, John.” His heart had broken then, hearing that tone. Loving, but without heat. Gentle, but without desire. 

The fight had just drained out of him then, leaving nothing, just, nothing at all. So he’d listened, drinking expensive Scotch, while Colonel Russell James Morrison explained that his position, this posting, was a proving ground, a test. An extremely close examination by the brass for a move up the ladder. The move he’s always wanted. What he’s meant to make himself into since, well, since forever really. This is his chance, his break, and he can’t... 

“Johnny, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. If we were closer, if you were posted here, maybe we could find a way. But when you just fly in to see me like this, it looks bad. And if I transferred you, all kinds of flags would go up. So you see, we just, I just, it can’t go on, kiddo. No matter how much I want it to. No matter how much I love you.”

“Liar.” He’d snapped, this time enjoying the hurt in those eyes, the jerk backwards, the drawn mouth. The truly stupid thing was, he’d been too young and too wounded to understand that Russ wasn’t lying to him, had never lied to him. That Russ was doing what he could to make the best of a bad situation. To try to bring both of them out the other side of this, maybe not whole, but at least still standing.

 

“Hey.” Russ is nudging his hand with the chilly bottle. “What world are you in, kiddo?” 

After he takes the beer and has a long, cooling, drink, he looks back up at Russ in time to see the older man put his beer down and lean both arms on the desk. “Having a hard time leaving the beach behind?”

“How’d you know…oh…Alex sent me those files.”

“Mmhm. She spent some time tracking you down when she couldn’t get you on the phone and no one answered at the house. Had to dig a little, but she put in the hours until she found you.”

“She’s working out as XO, huh? That’s good.”

Russ is watching him, leaning back in his big General chair now, quietly sipping at his Kirin. “She’s doing very well so far. We’ll see what happens when we go into the shit.” 

Beer gone, bottle set carefully on the blotter, Russ asks, “How about you? You gonna be ok when we go into the shit?”

He can’t answer that. Not right away. Thoughts of his sweet boy make that impossible. 

Staring into the open eye of his beer, it’s all he can do to stop the tears. And even so, he knows Russ isn’t missing a thing. “I’ll…” His voice catches and a muttered, “fuck” escapes him. “I’ll do what I have to do. You know that. I can focus.”

“I know you can. But I hate to see you hurting, kiddo. Hate it.”

And that breaks him, because he knows Russ loves him, has always loved him. Practically since first sight.

And he loves Russ. Maybe not the way he once did, they both put paid to those feelings before they left the bar that night in Okinawa, but even if the sex burned away, the feelings beneath are strong. Stronger maybe because they aren’t mixed with ownership or possession anymore.

Not to mention that if anyone can understand what he’s going through right now, it’s Rusty.

“How did you feel when you had to tell me good-bye?”

The creak of the chair startles him and he lifts his gaze to see Russ leaning back, withdrawing, right fist wrapped in his left palm. His fingers have gone white.

“John…” They’ve never talked about that night. Ever. When Russ posted back to Benning and became the battalion commander, they avoided each other for a few months, being warily polite when they were forced together. 

That had lasted until the next time they went in-country, and Russ had to rely on him and he on Russ. They’d both just stood tall and moved past it, doing their jobs until they got comfortable with each other. Until the distance evaporated and they started to mesh again.

“It’s okay, Rusty. I don’t want… Please don’t be… I met the most amazing kid. He knocked me flat. I had the best summer of my life, and…now…now it’s over and he’s gone. And I know it was the right thing, but I feel dead, Russ. Like my heart’s gone or stopped or some damned thing. But if it were I wouldn’t hurt so fucking much. Did you feel dead Russ? When you had to finally let me go?”

 

“Oh, Johnny…” Rusty’s sigh is long and pained, and it arrows through John. How is it he never considered until just now that what Russ did that night might have hurt him just as badly? “Johnny. I wished I were dead. I’d have rather been six feet down than in that shiny, stuck-up, fucking bar having to tell my baby that…”

“I couldn’t be your baby anymore?” Leaning, reaching, he lets a hand rest on the older man’s still clasped hands. “I’m sorry, boss.”

“You’re sorry?” That sharp blue gaze flicks up to his, and he sees the two qualities he has always adored in this man, the honesty and the wicked sense of humor. “I picked the worst place, and what had to be the dumbest fucking way to tell you, kid. But I had to tell you. It felt like some big asshole kept kicking me in the gut, but I had to tell you. And when I did, it tore my heart in two.”

Russ’ hand is freed then, sliding into his, grip strong but still so gentle, the way Russ has always been with him. “I forgive you.” He whispers, squeezing back, answering with his body, which works best between them anyway, and has since forever. 

The pressure is returned, and though there are tears in the older man’s eyes, he’s smiling through them. That ‘go to hell’ grin that’s pure Russ. “There wasn’t a single day I didn’t miss you. I still do. No one knows the heart of me like you, boy.” There’s a quiet pause, in which he can feel Russ debating with himself.

“Just say it, boss.” He urges. “I used to hear it out of you every day, two or three times, so it’s not like you can’t say it. Unless you forgot how.”

“I sure as hell spent a lot of nights trying to forget.”

“Russ…”

“I love you, John.” The older man says, firm and quiet. “It was never because I didn’t love you.”

“I know.” Lifting his free hand to Russ’ collar, he flips the little gold star there with a fingertip. “It was for those. It was cause you couldn’t find a way to have us both.”

“No. I couldn’t.” Russ is moving, fast, and both hands are captured now, held between them on the desk, more gentle pressure, the sweet familiarity of which runs a current of warmth through him. “No matter how hard I tried.”

“I’m sorry.” It a helpless reaction now, now that he really gets it. “I’m sorry I was such a fucking asshole that night, boss. You deserved better from me.”

“Jesus Christ! I was breaking up with you, baby. You had a right to everything you said.”

“No. No I didn’t.” He can see in Rusty’s eyes that he remembers the words just as well as John does himself. “You never lied to me. Never once. It’s not in you to lie. I treasure that about you.”

“I always did my best to tell you the truth. I tried so hard to make sure you knew what you were getting into.” And Russ did. He discussed the dangers and outlined the rules, and then explained away the bruises John left on his neck in those passionate nights.

“What you were getting into, you mean?” he asks, straight-faced, wanting to break the tension, waiting to get the laugh that this well-worn tease always drew from Russ.

He’s not disappointed. “Oh. Wait. Wait a goddamn minute, hot shot.” Rusty growls fiercely, eyes twinkling, strong hands now locked down hard around his. “I did lie to you. I swear at some point I said I wouldn’t come in your mouth.”

As a comeback, that’s pretty damn good. Vintage Russ. The part of Russ that’s been withheld from him since that night. That was something he thought they’d never be able to have again, those rapid-fire insults, that bullshit they used to give each other on a minute by minute basis, and his heart swells, happiness warring with pain, and the tears get out again, flooding down his cheeks.

“Oh, John. Baby.” He hears as Rusty leans closer, letting go his hands to cup his head, guiding him down against a shoulder. “Life’s a pure bitch sometimes, huh?”

Nodding, cheek pressed to hard muscle, letting himself relax for the first time in days, all he can do for the first ten minutes is cry.

 

The initial rush of expended emotion makes him realize just how worn out he still is, and the easy comfort of Russ’ shoulder is the perfect place to hide from the world for a while, gather his strength.

“So what’s this gorgeous piece of perfection’s name, huh?” the older man asks as John’s tears trail off into long deep breaths. “The kid that knocked you flat? And please tell me he’s not really a kid.”

That surprises a laugh out of him, and he pushes away from his ex-lover, hunting the box of tissues that is always on every officer’s desk, for breakdowns by subordinates just like this one. “Did I say he was gorgeous?”

“You only go for wildly handsome men, John.” Russ teases. “And that’s a fact.”

Tossing the balled up Kleenex into the trash, he even manages to say it without breaking. “It’s Templeton. He goes by Temp.”

“Got a picture? I want to see if he’s in my league.”

He does actually. Temp’s not the only sneak-thief in this relationship. The gray T-shirt had been more than a reasonable sacrifice to get what he took.

There a so many pockets inside pockets in these uniforms that he’d debated about where to hide it, wanting it as close to his body as possible, but in a place where it wouldn’t get beat to shit. Not that it probably won’t anyway when he has to go into combat, but he wants it nice for as long as possible.

Reaching for the flap pocket in his shirt, freeing the outer button and then the inner one, he fishes it out and sets it on the desk in front of Russ. Temp in his cap and gown, shaking someone’s hand, accepting his diploma. He’d felt a little shitty about stealing it, but there were two copies in the envelope when he’d seen it laying with his boy’s other paperwork; the small collection of documents that told him who he was.

And he’d needed it, in a visceral way, his brain hungry for the visual stimulus, the same way that Temp craves touch, the stroke of his hand, or the softness of his shirt.

“Damn. He is a beauty, isn’t he?” Russ is bending, perusing, knowing not to touch something so precious, in that way he just knows so many things. “But I’m gonna ask you again, Johnny. Please tell me this is his college graduation, or an old picture, or something. You haven’t been out jail-baiting, have you?”

“He turned eighteen before the sex.” Going to the fridge, he pulls out two more beers and snaps off the caps, turning to set one before Russ and taking a long drink of his own. “Scout’s honor.”

A one-star General snorting with laughter over his fresh beer is a quite the sight. “Scout’s honor, my ass. That boy doesn’t look a minute over seventeen. And even if he is…”

Rusty doesn’t go any further. He can’t. He’s thirty-nine and counting. Which makes he and John nearly as far apart. 

“Yeah.” John teases. “Thought you’d stop about there.” Settling back into the chair, he puts a fingertip on the picture and draws it toward him, thumb stroking over his honey love’s smiling face. “and he is eighteen. Even though he may not look it. He’s one of those people that’s going to be lucky enough to be flawlessly handsome until he’s eighty.”

“Lucky him.” Russ is sipping at his beer. “But it’s not about that, is it? For you? I know you like ‘em handsome, with broad shoulders, and that strong neck thing that turns you on, but you’re more about the present than the paper it’s wrapped in.” 

That’s true. Absolutely true. As Russ well knows. Which is why he’s asking. “Temp’s a lot more than a pretty package, Russ. He’s tough and determined. Goal-oriented. Learns fast, got a mind like greased lightning. He’s inventive, thinks around the corners of things, but always stays practical. Great resolve. But a heart as big as there is. So understanding. So giving.”

Tucking the picture carefully away, he takes a swig of beer and watches Rusty watching him. 

“Well…clearly you’re head over ass in love with that wonderful kid with the beautiful face. So. How long til you’re trying to sell me on getting him into the Army, on to this base, and into your team, hot shot? Excuse me, Major hot shot.”

He doesn’t even have to think about that. “No.”

“No?” 

“No, Russ. Not Temp.” Finishing his beer, he thumps the bottle onto the desk. “No.”

“He hasn’t got what it takes? From the build-up you gave him, I’d have thought he was Audie fucking Murphy.”

“Audie Murphy? Christ, how old are you?” John marvels.

“Hey. The man was an American hero. My Dad loved Audie Murphy. I beat long odds not getting named after the guy. But you’re avoiding my point. Why isn’t your boy Ranger material?”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. He could do it. He could do anything he wanted to. Gifts like he’s got will come out wherever he is and whatever he does.”

“But?”

“But. He got a full ride to Rutgers on pre-law. He’s going to be a starched-shirt, penthouse, limo kind of man.” The brief mental picture of Temp in a handmade shirt and a suit that fits him the way it should runs a thrill along his spine. “He had a shitty life, Russ. Orphan. Foster kid. Always on the out. He’s going to get in if it kills him. And he’s in the perfect spot to do that.”

“He wanted to stay with you didn’t he?”

Looking up at Russ from under his eyebrows, John growls, “so?”

“You said no. You wanted him to have his shot at that bright life. You’re a wily little shit when you want to be, you know that?”

“Me?”

“You. Don’t pretend you weren’t throwing yourself in front of the train for him. Knowingly so, by the way. You take the pain and you give him the choice.” Russ’ voice is gentle, but no-bullshit. “You could hardly put two more divergent paths in front of the kid. And him only eighteen and probably just as fucked-up in love with you as you are with him, right?”

“Well…”

“Mmhm.” Russ’ hands are in that serious, ‘I’m your commander’ knot again, leaning forward on his desk. “You’re waiting to see what he makes out of it. If he turns back toward you or if he turns away. Or if he goes wild.”

Though he’s steeled himself against it, he can’t really think about what he’d do if Temp turned away. “He needs to know who he is without me, Russ. And I need to see that he knows. Then he can make his choice, not feel..beholden…to me. I’ve got no use for a shadow. I need…”

“a partner.” The older man finishes for him.

“I’ve never wanted the whole ‘sugar daddy’ thing. Teaching some kid to fold my socks and suck my dick and obey my every whim.”

“You’re a better man than I am.” Russ sighs. “Saying no to the adoration.”

“Bullshit. You don’t want that either. You wouldn’t have seduced me if you did.”

“Oh c’mon, you know how to be adoring. When it suits you.” The whole history of their relationship is encapsulated in those few words. The push and pull there’s always been between them. The helpless lust. The deep respect. The power struggle. Everything always tempered by the unabashed fun they had together.

Looking up with a grin, seeing all of it reflected in those warm blue eyes, he realizes that he can say it too. Now. Again. “I love you one hell of a lot, boss. You know?”

“Yeah. I know that.” Russ clears his throat softly, and gives him a gentle smile. Then closes the subject with an almost audible clang. “But what’re you going to do about the kid?”

“I’m going to get my mail.”

 

There’s a fairly good stack of crap in his box, some of which seems to have been there since he shipped out of Mannheim, and he tosses ninety percent of it right into the swill. He nearly drops the rest when he sees the slim envelope tucked between this week’s duty roster and his credit card bill. 

Crazy, isn’t it, that just seeing the kid’s handwriting on the front gets him hot?

Jamming everything but that treasure into the big flap pocket on his left thigh, he snaps the box closed and walks back out onto the quad, heading for his room, forcing himself not to let his face show the joy in his heart that Temp did it. Temp wrote.

 

His small BOQ apartment is cool, but stuffy. Closed up too long. He’s not even sure why they didn’t move his stuff out and give the place to someone else. Probably Rusty’s doing, making sure that he’d have all his options open.

Dumping the personnel files onto the tiny kitchen counter, he follows them with his keys and his hat and then leans both elbows onto the tan surface, turning the letter in his hands, absorbing it. His boy must have written it that first night, for it to be here now. Waiting.

Every single one of Temp’s letters are going to be keepsakes for him, so he flips out his jackknife and slits the envelope carefully at the end. The paper is cheap lined stuff, straight from a college-ruled notebook, and it stings him a little, making his eyes water. His boy. In that tiny room. All alone.

Then he reads the few lines, Temp’s four beautiful bullet points, feeling every bit of the warmth that the kid put in there, every drop of the commitment they’ve made. And he can almost feel that big heart, beating under his cheek while he holds Temp close, loving him. 

Letting the envelope drop, John backs toward the narrow sofa, hand going to his zipper, re-reading the third thing, thinking about his boy’s eyes, his lips, the soft, tight silk of his ass gripping and slipping. Dropping down on his back, letting his legs splay open, dick in hand, he strokes himself to full hardness, thinking about Templeton’s tongue, brushing just there while he sucks with that sinfully sensuous mouth, and hopes his honey love is being happy right now.

 

Manhattan is where he should have been all his life. Templeton knows this, feels it in his blood. It’s big. Dirty. Fast. Shiny. Fucking perfect.

Fortified by vente lattes from Starbucks bought with Brian’s credit card, they’d talked all the way in. Temp had explained his early life and the loneliness he’d lived with, and Brian had explained how, awesome as his parents were, to them he was more a piece of baggage that they carried through life than a person. It hadn’t made for a great home life for him either. What it had given him was a lot of free time and the means to use it. 

They’d got off the train in Grand Central Station, a place that Temp had never imagined he’d be. Then Brian had led him up and out to 42nd Street, grabbing his chin and turning his head until the grace and beauty that was the Chrysler Building came into his view, laughing as he gaped in awe. “Check that out, my old china. You’re in it now.”

He’d stood, staring, as Brian stepped to the curb and raised an arm. “Taxi! Come on Temp. We’ve got places to go. Things to do.” A friendly hand caught his shoulder, fingers pressing through his old sweater and too small polo shirt. “You need a Barney’s charge account. Then we’ll find a skinny, sadly out-of-fashion wino and re-gift.”

“What? We can’t…”

“Meter’s running, Temp.” Brian’s grin was a dare, a promise and present, all in one. “Get in.”

Now they’re standing in it, the lobby, or atrium of whatever you want to call it, in the middle of Manhattan, the busy of the city going on all around them.

“Come on sweetie. Mens is on four.”

“Brian. We came to the city for your car, not for…this. I can’t afford...”

“And you won’t have to.” Brian is tugging at his hand now, pulling him out of the press of people, taking him to the elevator bank, waiting until the full car goes up and pressing the button again. “Here’s the sketch. You’re an Aussie actor, right. Up and coming star in your own country. Here in America, in New York, for the first time. You’ve just got the second lead in ‘South Pacific.”

“South Pacific, Bri? What the fuck are you…”

The elevator is back, and a small crowd exits, brushing by them, Brian commandeering the elevator and frowning people away as he pulls Temp in and pushes 4.

“Yes, South Pacific. They’re reviving it. Dad’s invested. And there are a ton of men’s parts for a hunky thing like you, so it’ll fly. You can do Australian, can’t you?” 

“Australian what?”

“Accent. I’m your manager, getting you started in the city. We know you’re going to be a Broadway star as well, and we’re giving a few select establishments the first shot at kitting you out. We’ll go to Vuitton next. Best accessories on the planet. Then to Armani for ties and scarves. Then…”

“But Brian, I can’t…”

Then the elevator is chiming and Brian is patting and straightening, smoothing back Templeton’s long, sun and salt-bleached waves. “God, even your hair is in character; though it could use a style. This is going to be epic.”

The door is opening, and Brian is leading him into an open white space with spare displays and no price tags, and a tall thin clerk is eyeing them with a look that Templeton knows all too well, and in that second he doesn’t give a fuck for anything but taking that smirk off that asshole’s face.

“G’day!” he barks, pushing his hands into his pockets, trying to channel Paul Hogan, hearing Brian’s pleased hum beside him. “So this is the fuckin’ famous Barney’s, yeah? Looks better than that big red place you took me, Wills. What was that called?”

“Macy’s, Robby. But forget about them. They didn’t know how to treat you.”

“Gentlemen?” The clerk is utterly cool, still as condescending as hell.

“Yes. Christopher.” Brian purrs, staring at the young man’s white nameplate. “This is Mr. Robin Banks. He’s here to complete his wardrobe. So, we’ll need your manager, please.”

Three hours later they’re going down in the elevator again, Temp feeling like a fraud in his new classic suit by Dolce & Gabbana. New boxers by Zimmerli. New shirt by Yves St. Laurent. New socks by Brioni. New shoes by Jimmy Choo; a black loafer that Christopher had gushed over, flirting like fuck. Not to mention the denim by Ralph Lauren, an overcoat by Alexander McQueen, polos and t-shirts and sportshirts, all of it boxed and bagged and on its way to Brian’s parent’s apartment on Central Park West. 

The only thing he has left of him is his wallet. And Tag Heuer. He hadn’t taken that off for a second. Looking at it now makes his heard drop into the new Jimmy Choo’s. John would not like this. John would never have let this happen.

“Stop having second thoughts, Temp.” Brian’s voice is low and calm. “Everyone needs a couple of extra personas. For emergency’s sake. The bills will go my parent’s accountant. He’ll ask questions. I’ll lie for a while. Eventually I’ll get a two sentence lecture and an increase in my allowance. It’s no big thing. And you got to be pampered and petted for three hours and given a forty percent discount on some really incredible clothes. It’s a win-win.”

“It just seems…”

“Like you’re gaming the system?”

At his miserable nod, Brian pats his shoulder and whispers, “you are, Temp. But the system was built to be gamed. By those who are smart enough to see the rules people make and then bend them to their own advantage. It’s survival, baby.”

“But you’re fucking rich, Brian. Like Rockefeller fucking rich. You don’t need to survive.”

“Yes, hon. But I’m bored. Being given everything is not conducive to learning anything. I’ll tell you. When I was eight or so I left the apartment and went down to the Park by myself. I didn’t have dick in my pockets, you get me? If I’d been kidnapped or murdered, it would have taken days for anyone to know it. 

And I watched. I watched the people that live there. And I watched the people that walk by them. And the structure became clear. How to ask, when to ask, who to ask. When you can demand instead of ask. It was, without a doubt, the best day of my life. I’ve only gotten better with age and the increase in territory. The first time I scammed a major retailer, I did a fucking happy dance on the 8th Street Blue Line.”

Temp can’t help his laughter now, imagining his friend letting it all out.

“No joke, man. It was better than any drug. And there’s nothing in the world I can’t pull off if I plan it right. Last year I made myself a pass and a uniform, and I stood right behind the guy that lowers the ball in Times Square for New Year’s, motherfucker. How’s that?”

“Pretty fucking awesome, dude.” Temp has to admit, even if only to himself right now, that what they just did was fun. And informative. Not to mention useful.

“Damn right. And you are..” Brian’s arm goes up around his neck, and pulls their heads close, “the best damned partner in crime. Ever. In character. Spot on. No strain. Like ice in your veins, baby. Stay with me always, Temp. Sincerely.”

“I can’t Bri. You know where I’m going.”

“And who you’re going to. Yeah. I know. I wish I could want to fuck you, Temp. Maybe I could change your mind.”

“You wish you could want…what Bri? I…”

“I want to keep you. But I’m not gay. Can’t be. I’ve tried. It wasn’t for me. Besides the fact that your boyfriend would feed me my liver if I touched you.”

“Well, he probably wouldn’t…I mean…” The smile on his face is only getting wider.

“Oh, stop. The man would decimate whatever and whoever he had to for you. He’d walk into Hell if you dropped your hanky. I saw him, remember hon? That one’s an alpha, building his pack. Starting with his beta, which is you, my china. You lucky little shit. Everyone wants to be loved like that.”

Temp pulls away, and grabs Brian’s hand, looking his roomie in the eye. “Hey. You’ll find it. There’s someone out there who’s the right one for you.”

Brian’s eyes, hard as green diamonds, soften. “I’m gonna have ‘hopeless romantic’ tattooed on your forehead, Temp. Sincerely. I hope your fully poseable GI Joe is proud of himself.”

“Why?”

“Because he started your love affair in a fairy tale, hon. And he’s going to have to work the rest of his life to keep it up. Not that I don’t think he can.” Brian goes on as Temp starts to protest. “I just worry about when he does disappoint you for the first time.”

“Brian? What? I don’t…”

“I’m sorry, Temp.” The hug is back, this time around his waist, quick and warm. “I’m just a jealous major asshole. Forgive?”

Not understanding exactly what he’s forgiving, Temp returns the hug more firmly. “Yeah. Of course.”

And Brian is Brian again. Perfect and arrogant. Arrogantly perfect. Cool smile. Blond hair falling artfully over one eye. “Good. It’s lunch. Do you like sushi, sweetie?”

“That’s raw fish right? Never had it.”

“Yes! I get to bust your cherry. And just raw fish is called sashimi. Sushi has rice and seaweed and other delicious things.”

The elevator is at lobby level now, and a crowd of matronly ladies is staring at them as they leave the car arm in arm. “You’re going to love it. And Vuitton is just up 5th. And it’s only noon. Life is good, Temp. Life is good!”

 

And it only got better from there. They did hit Vuitton. And Armani. And, much to Brian’s initial discomfort, the Adidas Sports Performance store, where Temp styled himself as the next DiMaggio and got a ton of free gear, including running shoes that weren’t even supposed to be for sale yet.

By the time they’d headed back home, the car had been so stuffed Brian couldn’t even see out the rearview and Temp had bags between his feet and in his lap. They’d both been exhausted and high on pappardelle Bolognese from Little Italy and the good life.

Then school had started. Temp learned what exhausted really was. And how it felt when the guy punching you is not your lover, and wants you to bruise. Badly. 

It hurt. He ran, and puked, and ran some more, trying to toughen himself up. And he was as good at it as he’d felt he could be. He got knocked down, but never knocked out. Unlike the four other Freshman that had started with him. They’d buckled, one by one. He’d stayed. Worked. Fought. 

By the first week of November the older guys had started to let him in. He had a nickname. Faceman. Given by a Senior Lieutenant who, whenever they saw each other, asked, ‘you think you’re going to make it with just that pretty face, man?’, then proceeded to make him brace for an hour, or punched him just hard enough in the gut to steal his wind, or made him do a hundred pushups, head down on the library steps, with the whole fucking school watching.

He’d understood that these were tests of his commitment. As much as the obstacle course, the twenty mile runs, and the hand to hand. Would he make or would he break? That was all they wanted to know.

The other half of his life has been just as hard and wild. The Aussie actor, Robin Banks, and his manager Wills rented an apartment in Tribeca in the middle of October, and Temp and Brian roll to the city in their alter egos as often as they can. Somehow Brian got them both ID in their assumed names so that this gig could really take off. Robin Banks even has a birth certificate from New South Wales, and an Australian passport with Temp’s picture on it. From there, driver’s licenses, bank accounts, charge accounts, all lined up like dominoes.

There are parties. Drugs of every shape and description. Polo matches. Swimming pools on the 90th floor. Weekend trips to Monte Carlo. Women, and men, with not a care in the world beyond their next breath. It’s crazy. And he loves it.

As much as he misses John when he’s out there in his sweats, running his laps, or on the course, pulling himself over walls and crawling under bars, he misses his lover more on those long Manhattan nights, when everyone’s drinking or snorting or smoking their item of choice. When it’s all sweat and silky clothing and expensive scent. 

He met a guy at one of those parties. One guy. Tall and deep-voiced. He didn’t have the hands, and his eyes were dark brown. But god, his dick had been like a rock in his pants and he’d been so aroused he was sure the guy could smell him, and he’d wanted nothing more than that big heavy cock in his ass, so ashamed of his own need he was stuttering.

Brian had come to his rescue, getting between them, taking his drink, explaining to the guy that Robbie had a very long rehearsal today, and would he be a wonder and maybe get him a glass of ice-water. Bri had guided him away, out onto the balcony in the rain, hugged him, petted his hair, told him he wasn’t an evil person. Just a human man with perfectly normal urges.

He’d tried to explain that John had known he would want to, had told him he would want to, and that it was all right. But it was him, all him, and how could he be thinking…and then they kissed. For real. He kissed Brian and Brian kissed right back. For all of twenty seconds it was wonderful. Then it was comfortable. Then it was hesitant. Then it was over, and they were looking into each other’s eyes from mere inches.

“You really don’t, do you Bri?”

“No. But I love you, sweetie. I will hug you for as long as you want me to. That help? And I will find a very nice older man for you, if you really want one. But not a party hook-up. Who knows where that guy came from? Who knows what he’ll do? There are very discreet avenues for things like that, and this city is the place to find them.”

 

He’d said no then. Told Brian that he wasn’t taking either of those choices, thanks, and pulled him back through the door and through the party, past the tall sexy not-John with the glass of ice-water, right out to the wet street. Where they’d walked back down Broadway in the drizzle, turning off at Times Square for Junior’s cheesecake and huge mugs of black coffee in the wee hours of the morning. Being friends. The kind of friends that are too damned hard to find.

Running his drafting pencil over the crossed off squares of November, Temp forces himself to look back at the page of dark writing sitting on top of his Engineering book. John’s letter says he’s sorry, but there is no way he’ll be in-country for Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. Maybe not even Valentine’s Day, though he’s hoping. 

Thanksgiving is this fucking Thursday, and he’s been putting off Mouse, and Brian, and Clancy, hoping for a letter. When he found it sitting on his pillow with a smiley face inked on it from Brian, after he showered off Robbie, and put Templeton back on, he’d torn it open fast, devouring it like candy, feeling his heart sink when the sense of it got through to him.

_Temp baby, I miss you so, dear heart. Seems like every day is worse, and every night is longer than the one before, the longer I’m away from you. The powers that be are keeping us here for at least another couple of months. We’ve proved invaluable according to their press releases. And we have done some good, I think. Gotten some of the real lunatics out of the picture. Saved some lives. At least I hope we have._  
Anyway, I won’t be home til after the new year, is what I’m trying to say. I know that disappoints you, darling boy. It does me too. I did have your present all picked out; you’re just going to have to wait, and I’m sorry about that. We’ll make Christmas when we get together again.  
And, by the way, your last letter was dirty pool. You can’t write things like that to me when we can’t do them. Right away. Repeatedly. So when I get back, you’d better have the leather pants. And the attitude. Hear me? 

_Love, John._

Wiping a hand over his eyes, Temp folds the letter and tucks it under his book, trying not to think about John and how much his body needs a loving hand. He’s got two pages of problems to finish here. Then some reading for his Military History lecture tomorrow. Then at least an hour of work on his midterm project for Applied Technology. He can’t be thinking about the leather pants either. Or having John strip them off him and…

“Honey, I’m home.” Brian’s keys hit the desk behind him, and he wipes his eyes again.

“You ok, hon? What did John have to say? Something not so good, I’m guessing.” A cold hand rubs over his shoulder as Brian dumps his coat and scarf.

“He can’t come home, Bri. Not for months.” The damn tears won’t stop this time and he accepts the handful of tissues his roommate is holding out with a grateful look. “And I’m so fucking tired. It’s like there’s not enough sleep in the universe. My fucking midterms are gonna kill me. I’ve got so much homework I literally cannot finish it for fucking weeks, I think. And his shirt doesn’t even smell like him at all anymore.”

Brian’s nodding, rubbing his chilly hands up and down Temp’s warm, thermal-clad arm. “I’m sorry.”

“And I’m a whiner. I know. I need to chill. I need…”

“You need a break. When’s your last class Wednesday? A three o-clock right? We pack. We’re out by four-thirty at the latest. We can be at the parental units’ bungalow in the Bahamas by nine…no? You don’t want to do that, brother?”

He feels like shit saying it, but he can’t not anymore. John was so right. His hand is not enough. “I want to spend the holiday in the city. But not as Robbie and Wills. Just as me. And you as you. And you find me what you said you could. Please Bri? I’m so fucking useless. My man writes me this letter. This letter that tells me how much he loves me, and here I am asking my best friend to find me a whore.”

“They’re not called whores at the level I’m talking about, hon. They’re escorts. And I can find you one as much, or as little, like John as you need.” Brian’s is still rubbing his arm. “You’re not useless. We had this discussion. You’re human.”

“Are there ones that just touch? That don’t, you know, do everything? I don’t think I could let anyone…in…like that.”

“Whatever you want, we’ll find.” The rubbing hands are warm now, patting his damp cheeks gently. “Do your homework. I’ve got calls to make.”

 

They choose Sarge’s Deli for Thanksgiving dinner, sitting among old ladies in babushkas and men that speak only Yiddish and look at their menus over the top of horn-rimmed half-glasses.  
Their favorite waitress, Vonna, is sitting at the counter reading the Post when they come in, and she eases off her stool and hugs them both. “Brian and Temp, my two favorite goyim. Sit down here next to me, darlings.” As they shrug out of their coats and toss them into an empty chair, Vonna goes around the tables with the coffee pot in one hand and the teapot in the other, passing out re-fills. 

When she comes back, they’re waiting, mugs flipped up. She pours, smiling at them each in turn. “What’re my boys going to have today? Smoked fish combo for Templeton? And, Sarge’s Favorite for beautiful Brian, right?”

“No turkey, Von?” Brian teased. “No dressing?”

“Hot turkey sandwich, I can get you, kiddo. You want that?”

“Nah. Beautiful Brian will have his customary brisket-smothered, fried-potato goodness. And leave…”

“Leave out the applesauce. Yes, honey, I know. Temp? What’s yours today?”

“I’m going with the Sturgeon and Whitefish today, Vonna.” Cold hands closed around his monster coffee cup, Temp takes a warming sip and moans a little at the taste. In a city of trendy coffee shops and foamed whatever-the-fuck, there’s nothing that can beat Sarge’s fresh-made brew.

“You want onions with that, or you got a heavy date later, sweetie?”

Brian pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth, sets it back down and reaches for the sugar shaker, not looking at him. The assignation, which is the only way he can think of it, has been arranged for tonight. The escort. His whore.

“No onions, Von. We’ve got a party to go to later. Better safe than sorry.”

“Words to live by.” Von says softly, reaching to pat his whiskered cheek. “Food’ll be right up for you.”

“I can still call it off, hon.” Brian is rearranging his place setting, folding and re-folding the paper napkin into new and interesting shapes. “You’re not committed.”

“No? I heard you on the phone, Bri. Five-hundred up front, five-hundred when he leaves. You going to tell me that you didn’t go down and get the cash and take to…wherever?”

“No.” His best friend’s hand is warm and gentle on his. “I paid. But fuck it, Temp. If you want to change your mind, change it. I’d rather lose the five than have you do something you don’t want to do.”

“But I do want it. Fucking hell.” Running a hand up, he pulls through his longish curls, concentrating on the sting in his scalp instead of the dismay in his heart. “goddamn it, I want it. Do you know how long it’s been since he touched…”

The warm hand has closed warningly around his wrist as two older ladies in dark wool coats move past them to the door.

“Shit. I’m so messed up, Bri. I feel like I’m going to explode. How to people do this? Be apart like this? It’s fucking torture.”

His roommate is regarding him with both pity and uncomplicated love in his eyes. “I don’t know, china. They do what they have to, I guess.”

Temp drops his gaze to the counter top, looking at Tag Heuer, and just as quickly looking away. “Does he look like John?” 

“Not really.” Brian answers quietly. “You asked for older, taller than you, and no penetration. So that’s what I got.”

“What time is he showing up?”  
Brian doesn’t answer, touching a finger to his lips as Vonna delivers their plates.

When she’s topped up their coffee and gone on her way to a table of just arrived thirty-somethings, he continues smoothly, “He’ll be there at eight. You have three hours for the grand. But you can keep him if you like. All night if you want to. I’m buying.”

Temp feels like shit about that too, but Brian wouldn’t take no for an answer. Any more than he would agree to leave Temp alone with his present. Beautiful Brian is the best damn wingman in the world, and Temp can’t help but feel that he doesn’t deserve all the kindness his roommate’s shown him, goes on showing him, every minute.

Picking at the flaky white fish on his plate, he mutters, “Am I doing the right thing, Bri? Am I?”

“Let’s just eat, okay, Temp? Let’s eat. And we’ll let tonight take care of itself. Okay?”

Even as he nods, and begins to tackle his dinner in earnest, that doubt is still eating at the edges of his mind. What is he doing? And why?

 

He’s staring down at the Park, head resting against the cold glass of the dining room window when the intercom by the front door starts to buzz. Brian tosses his Vogue to the mahogany and glass coffee table and gets up to answer.

Rolling his hot forehead across the window a couple more times, he listens carefully to his roomie, those cultured tones agreeing that yes, he is expecting a visitor. The name? Brian is fishing in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the card he got for his five benajmins.

“Ummmm, Daniel Archer. Yeah. Send him up.”

Not even sure why he’s doing it, Templeton retreats into the shadow of the breakfront, making the heirloom china dance a little as he peeks out, eyes on the slice of foyer he can see. Daniel Archer doesn’t sound like too much of a threat, but ROTC has taught him that there can be a lot of value in a little surveillance. 

Brian doesn’t even look for him when the doorbell rings; he just swings the heavy door open and invites the guy inside.

Ok. Daniel is not bad. Not quite as tall as John. Or as solid. But who is? Dark hair. Expensively, but casually dressed. Jeans. Loafers. A nice pale yellow broadcloth shirt. A lot like he’s dressed himself. They probably shop at the same stores.

“Hi. I’m Daniel. You’re Brian? Or are you Templeton?” Ooh. Nice voice. Deep. Down there where… His eyes sting for a moment and he looks up quick, blinking away the tears. Now is not the time to think about what he doesn’t have. It’s time to focus on the here and now.

Temp can almost hear Bri’s brilliant green eyes inspecting their visitor. “I’m Brian.” he says finally, holding out his hand to shake. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll find Temp.”

They meet each other in the small hallway that leads through the butler’s pantry. “So?” Brian’s voice is pitched low, this is the most serious that Temp’s ever seen him. “Is he okay, hon? You want to go meet him?”

He does. He really, really does. And it makes him feel like running back down the hall and hiding in the guest room for a week. Or at least until his hard-on goes away. “I’m gonna go introduce myself. You come back in no more than two minutes. I don’t want to be alone with him right away. Okay?”

The gentle touch on his shoulder is familiar, and it settles him down. “Relax, brother.” Brian’s fingers tighten, and then soothe over his tense muscles. “Go on in. I’ll be back, in not more than two minutes, with some drinks. Okay?”

Setting his friend’s hand aside, he runs trembling fingers through his hair, squaring his shoulders. Pauses to breathe softly and take a sniff. No onions. “Okay.” And dives into the living room.

Where he finds Daniel, sitting comfortably on the sofa. He’s ignored the carefully fanned designer magazines, and even Brian’s discarded Vogue, in favor of leafing through Temp’s textbook for MHT 206 - History of The Infantry Soldier. 

“Hi.” Temp’s careful greeting still startles the other man, and he sets the heavy book down on the coffee table, gently pushing it shut and rising to shake hands.

“Hi. I’m Daniel.”

“Yeah. Brian told me.” Temp can’t get a handle on the nervousness that’s coursing through him, folding his arms and tucking his hands in to stop the jittering. “I’m Templeton.”

Daniel’s smile is gentle and understanding. “It’s nice to meet you Templeton.”

He moves to sit in the armchair and knocks into the side table, making the lamp sway alarmingly. Daniel steadies it without comment and takes his own seat. “You the one studying the military stuff, Temp? If I can call you Temp?”

Oh shit. ROTC and gay sex for hire doesn’t really mix, and he can feel his cheeks start to get hot. “Um. Yeah. I’m hoping to join the Army. After I graduate. And you can call me Temp. Most everyone does.”

“What drew you to the military? It’s not common. Especially with kids that live on Central Park.” It’s an honest question, there’s real interest there, and Temp feels the knot in his chest unhitch just a touch.

“This is Brian’s place. His parents’ place. Not mine.”

Daniel’s nod in response is polite, his smile a trifle warmer.

“I’m just a houseguest. Over break.”

“Mmmm. He must be an officer.”

Staring as he was at the clean, strong line of Daniel’s throat as he spoke, for a minute Temp can’t quite follow. “Wh…what did you say?”

“An officer…your guy. The one I’m standing in for tonight. He must be an officer if you’re going ROTC.”

Hand spread wide over his suddenly trembling mouth, Temp can only nod, feeling himself flush even redder.

“It’s ok, Temp. Really.” Daniel reaches and collects the hand that Temp left lying on the arm of the sofa, holding it gently between his. “He’s your first, huh? Is he your only, honey?”

His nod is miserable now, eyes locked on the powerful hands that cradle his, feeling every molecule of warm, male skin.

“How long?”

He has to move his hand to answer and Daniel reaches again, capturing him, thumbs stroking gently over his palms. “How long’s he been away? Since school started. Two months give or take.”

Temp’s hand is lifted and the handsome escort places it against his cheek, barely perceptible stubble tickling at Temp’s fingertips as a very tender kiss is laid on his palm. “I’ll bet you know to the minute how long it’s been, don’t you?”

Lip bitten, he can barely get the word out. “Yeah.”

Serious blue eyes stare deeply into his. “Well sweetie, I completely understand. My first was a cop, and he never wanted to admit he was gay, so…”

Glass chimes startlingly as Brian comes back through the door to the kitchen with his tray of drinks and stops short at the scene on the couch. “So…getting to know one another?”

Daniel’s gaze flicks to Brian and back to Temp, wondering, Temp can tell, just what the dynamic here is, while Brian makes his way to the coffee table with his freight of expensive liquor and carefully chilled mixers.

“A little bit.” Daniel smiles again as he releases Templeton’s hands with another tiny kiss to his fingertip. “Temp’s just been telling me about school.”

Tray deposited, Brian crosses his arms and flips his blonde wave back with a quick jerk of his head. “School. Did he tell you I’m pre-law? Going to follow in my father’s very deep, well-placed footsteps. Learning to sue the living shit out of people who displease me?”

“What?” Daniel growls, and Temp feels his cock stiffen a little in appreciation of that sound.

“Bri.” Temp begins, lifting a hand to his friend. “Sit down and settle down.”

“Listen china, you’re calling the shots here, but…”

“You’re not his boyfriend.” Daniel and Brian are frowning at one another now, while Daniel waits for a response. Or maybe not. “I’m guessing his boyfriend isn’t even in this area code, so…”

“I’m his friend. His best friend. And I’m going to make sure he’s safe.”

Daniel’s voice is low and steady. “He’ll be safe with me.”

Temp can hear Brian about to start again, and he looks up, catching the hem of his roomie’s Hilfiger sweater, waiting until the other man stops glaring daggers at Daniel and meets his eye.

“Brian.” He soothes.

The anger bleeds away and the response is back to the guy he loves. “Temp?”

“Everything is going to be absolutely okay. We’re going to start with a drink, me and Daniel. You can stay and have one if you want, or you can…”

“No. I’ve got a paper on King Ethelbert and his Witan to finish. A vodka and tonic would make it more incomprehensible than the Angles and the Saxons already are.” Brian’s bright green gaze flicks to Daniel and then back, his meaning clear when he continues. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

The escort, having already stated his position, quite intelligently says nothing.

Temp nods. “Later, eh?”

Smiling, Brian gently brushes Temp’s hand off his sweater. “Totally on the flip side, hon.”

Then Brian’s gone, into the darkened depths of the quiet apartment and Temp turns back to Daniel, and that deep reassuring voice.

“What do you drink, Daniel?” He doesn’t mean it to sound so flirtatious, but the hell of it is, he is flirting. The more he sees of the older man in the opposite chair, the more attractive he finds him, his body aching for the touch and the taste and the smell of another man.

“Usually Jack and Coke, but I don’t really want one right now.” A big hand falls on his knee and strokes upward, thumb edging toward his thickening shaft. “What I want is to take you to bed and make you happy, Temp. That work for you?”

“I really hope so.” he moans softly. “I really, really do. I can’t take much more. I really…” His plaintive words are stopped by a solid kiss.

It’s good. The kind of good that he remembers with such longing from the summer past, and he plunges off the couch and to his knees between Daniel’s long legs, mouth open to the older man’s teasing tongue, whining with desire.

Strong arms envelop him, and he feels the warmth of a palm on the curve of his ass, tugging him closer yet.

Kiss follows kiss, stealing his air, bruising his lips, gentling finally as he relaxes into Daniel’s body and lets heat flood him, sharing the pleasure he’s been so long denied.

The longer they kiss, the hotter they get, and Temp pulls back to strip off the dark blue wool sweater he’s wearing, tossing it on the pale carpet and slithering back up into Daniel’s embrace, encouraging the seeking hand that slides up under his sweat-dampened plain white tee, pressing along his back muscles.

“Oh, but you love to be touched, don’t you sweetie?” Daniel breathes in his ear, his hands roaming excitingly. “No wonder you feel like you’re dying without him.”

The tee shirt goes the way of his sweater, Daniel doing the honors this time, and Temp shivers with frustrated desire as his nipples are thumbed, lovingly, just once.

“Please…”

“Everything you need, sweet thing.” Daniel scoots forward in the chair and pulls him back in by the belt loops of his khakis, snugging their zippers together.

The hot throb of an erection against his own nearly drives Templeton out of his mind, and he almost bites through his lip when Daniel rubs a smooth shaven cheek on his bristled one and begins to place nipping kisses carefully along his jawline.

“My god, darling, how’ve you lasted this long?” the older man marvels, encouraging the slow motion that Temp has started between their hips, hand traveling slowly back to Templeton’s ass, gently squeezing and releasing.

“I dunno.” he pants, clutching broad shoulders, kissing Daniel’s receptive mouth again and again, loving the burn of whiskers against his lips, savoring the heat and strength and hardness he’s missed so damned much.

A questing finger slides down the back seam of his pants and lingers, circling his rose through two layers of damp cotton fabric. “When he does come home, you tell him to buy you something long and lifelike and show you how to use it. You poor sweet boy. Taking his cock away from you like that.”

It’s the genuine caring in Daniel’s deep voice that does it. Temp melts into it, grabbing at the wilting collar of the older man’s shirt, hearing the fabric strain as he pulls, wanting soft skin and hard chest and the friction of crisp hair.

Their mouths meet again and Temp whimpers as Daniel gently breaks the grip on his shirt, holding both his hands, pressing Temp back until he’s supported on his own knees again, kissing him gently, pausing longer between each one, until Templeton opens his eyes and their gazes meet.

“Let’s find your room, huh, Temp? Get more comfortable. What d’you say?”

He presses forward again for a biting hot kiss and grabs hold of the arms of Daniel’s chair, pulling himself to his feet, pleased and aroused by the appreciative way the older man is watching the play of his muscles.

“This way.” he murmurs, lifting his chin as he turns for the hall doorway. “Follow me.”

“Ass like that,” he hears as a finger slips through his back belt loop, “how could I not.”


End file.
